


The Two Brothers

by Vins



Series: Gold the herald of the morning [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gramander, M/M, Multi, Other, Some Plot, grindelnewt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vins/pseuds/Vins
Summary: A tip about a unicorn, a nudge toward Acromantula eggs, and yes, Newt realized he was being led along a trail of breadcrumbs. He was more concerned for the creatures than with the Ministry's paranoia, the waves of political upheaval, the whiff of revolution in the air. Percival disagreed, of course; and then Theseus went and recruited Percival for some hush-hush mission.Newt didn't fancy Percival becoming a part of the "Ministry Family," but he would support Percival--just as Percival had supported Newt over slow months of recovery from Grindelwald's influence, plagued by nightmares and gaps in his memories. Percival deserved a chance to resurrect his career. And splitting up had seemed the best option--until it wasn't.





	1. Weddings and Woodlice

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm still here! This work follows DbtD, so it'll make a lot more sense if you read that first :) 
> 
> There may be fbcog SPOILERS (not in the first chapter, I don't think, but going forward). This is a WIP with very slow updates, I'm afraid. No idea on the final chapter count, but shorter than the behemoth that came before this. Enjoy? And, as ever, I am grateful for any comments (or kudos!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jan 6, 2019 --> UPDATED WITH ART (!)
> 
> I once more commissioned the insanely amazing and lovely [Axilarts](https://axilarts.tumblr.com/) who made a gorgeous illustration of a soft and intimate Gramander moment below. Everyone go visit and follow them on tumblr ;) they are kind and brilliant and deserve all the praise and love <3

Ch 1. Weddings and Woodlice

 

Newton Artemis Fido Scamander married Porpentina Esther Goldstein in a small, civil ceremony. The bride’s sister and former boss were present, and the entire affair was over in less than an hour. Waiting for the license took up most of this time. Tina’s black leather coat was sleek next to the white lace dress robes of the bride ahead of them. 

Newt had brushed the animal hair from his suit, and obtained a pocketful of leaves for Pickett, who peered out occasionally from behind a sprig of campanula in Newt’s boutonnière. Newt had unearthed a bespoke grey suit threaded with gold, complete with a green and gold waistcoat and green tie, but he had inexplicably tossed the smart clothes to the Runespoor for floss. Percival assisted with the spells to straighten up his wardrobe and hair, magic entirely unfamiliar to Newt. He ruined Percival’s work immediately, running nervous hands through his fringe as they waited. It was getting long, falling in disheveled copper curls across his forehead and into his eyes.

The London Wizarding Registry granted Tina residential status as the wife of a British national, and proof of marriage and name change. Her husband, who had previously been denied his visa, would presumably have a better chance at obtaining one now he was married to a national (Theseus was keeping mum on Newt’s travel ban). Percival presented two silver bands, which Newt and Tina exchanged with solemn faces. They pretended not to notice when Newt’s pocket twitched.

When the clerk requested a witness to sign the document, Queenie took a turn with the quill. Each writer transfigured their own ink from water, so that the document was imbued with the magical signatures of all three parties.

The portly fellow leaning against the wall of the building near the phone booth joined their party when they emerged.

“How’d it go?” he asked, keeping his stride casually distant, as though he was only approaching the group to ask the time.

“Meet Mr. and Mrs. Scamander,” said Queenie, beaming and taking the man’s arm. The twitching of Newt’s breast pocket revealed Pickett’s chittering head and Newt patted the top of his leaves with a gentle fingertip. Pickett tapped on Newt’s ring, unused to jewelry adorning his tree.

“Congratulations, you two,” said Jacob, smiling. “You alright there, Newt? Tina?”

“Niffler’s going to love this. Hm? Oh, yes, fine. Tina?”

“I’m very well, thank you. Can we take this somewhere more private, if you don’t mind,” Tina said, eyes darting about sharply. “The nomaj way?”

When Newt unlocked the door to his apartment, Queenie beelined for the kitchen to put on the kettle. She seemed preoccupied. Jacob hesitated and then followed her.

“I’m sorry,” said Tina, letting herself fall back onto the couch with a sigh. “I always thought this would be…”

“A special day you could share with someone you loved?” Newt muttered.

“I never really could picture getting married,” Tina smiled bitterly. “I do love you, but,” she trailed off.

“Not in the way you imagined,” Newt nodded, sitting down beside Tina. Percival looked uneasily between them. 

Tina was rotating her ring around her finger, eyes restless and feet tapping.

“They’re imbued with evasion charms,” Newt said suddenly. “Makes it harder for anyone trying to land a hex on you. Nullifies the really simple jinxes on contact. Percy did it for mine, too—you can feel it if you’re sensitive to that sort of thing.”

“Think nothing of it. A wedding gift,” said Percival, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. Newt shot a glance at Percival and rested his attention upon his shoes once more.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” Tina said, smiling a little painfully at her hand.

“I’m honored to be sharing my name with my friend,” Newt said, after a pause. “Especially if it saves you trouble and more harassment. But you’ll find someone. And when you do, we can explain the situation to them, and they’ll understand.”

Tina looked ready to cry. Newt hesitated, and then reached over to embrace her. Tina’s breath was warm against his shirt.

Queenie and Jacob bustled into the room with a tea tray and, somehow, a two-tier cake frosted with lifelike violets and an iced Occamy. 

“Well, it’s not really a wedding without a cake, is it?” said Jacob, when Newt and Tina expressed their astonishment. 

They partook of the cake together, and Newt retreated into his case for the evening rounds. Having seen to his beasts, Newt made himself a cuppa before bed, setting the teacup down in the saucer harder than he intended. Steaming tea sloshed over the rim.

There was the familiar noise of Percival descending the ladder, and then Newt was embraced from behind. He tensed at the touch, and forced himself to relax. Pickett jumped from his pocket and up onto the shelf, near the honey jar, chittering at Percival from his perch.

“All fed and watered?” Percival spoke into the back of his neck.

“They are,” he said. Percival was mouthing the old cigarette burn just past Newt’s hairline, scraping teeth against dried sweat and sensitive skin. He stood on his toes to reach because Newt, already taller, was leaning slightly over his desk, hunched and staring down at his steaming tea. 

“You’re worried still,” Percival muttered, pressing his lips tenderly to Newt’s skin between words. “On your wedding night.”

“I’m scared I’ve hurt Tina,” Newt said. “What if it’s seen as a provocation? What if my name turns out to be worse?”

“Newt,” Percival stepped away, and Newt turned and cut the distance. “We have discussed this. Thoroughly. Grindelwald already knows about Tina. This will enable her to continue to do her work, which we agreed is important.”

“I don’t want to lose her friendship. I couldn’t lose you,” Newt muttered into the side of Percival’s head.

“You won’t,” Percival said sensibly. “Now drink your tea. You always complain when I charm it hot.”

Newt broke from the embrace with a reluctant quirk of the lip and cradled the teacup in his hands. While he sipped, Percival reached to put away the honey jar. The Swooping Evil clicked at him, Pickett chittered, and Percival swore. Newt smiled into his tea.

“You mentioned my wedding night,” he said, setting down the cup. “I hope you aren’t terribly heartbroken,” Newt continued, a smile breaking through his attempt at deadpan, cheeks creasing with dimples and eyes crinkling with amusement.

“I’ve already had a chat with your wife, and I am pleased to say, dear Mr. Scamander, that your missus has permitted me to give you a wedding night to remember in her stead,” Percival said.

Newt blinked when Percival laid hands hot with magic on his waist, and lifted him bodily. The pots of herbs, the teacup and kettle, the gas lamp and miscellaneous scraps and stones and quills and notes and claw-tips and potions supplies all clattered as Percival lifted Newt up and set him atop the wood shelving, pushing back the surface debris. Newt let out a muted laugh and magicked his gas lamp onto a higher shelf.

Meanwhile, Percival undid the buttons of Newt’s waistcoat slowly, as if the task required great concentration, griping mildly about the mess in Newt’s work space.

“You’re putting my papers back in the proper order,” Newt said, leaning back so that Percival had to follow him.

“You’re telling me this Lewis-forsaken chaos is your idea of order?”

Percival looked ready for a long rant. Newt leaned forward to preempt the diatribe, gently catching Percival’s mouth with his own and tugging him in by the lapels. The kiss was all lingering softness and warmth. After a time they separated, breathing in the heady stillness of the moment. There was a faint tapping. Percival’s hands were warm in Newt’s hair and on his waist, while Newt’s calloused hands had drifted up to frame Percival’s face, the stubble tickling his palms, fingers nestling below the faint bruises at the inner corners of dark eyes. 

“Did you hear something?” Newt said hoarsely, leaning toward the door of the shed. “I thought…but that can’t be Mary?”

“That is Tina, judging by the tentative knock,” Percival said, gaze flitting up to the trapdoor. There was a louder banging from above, then. “Ah, she’s gained confidence since my MACUSA days.”

“Please be decent, I’m coming down,” came Tina’s voice, and Percival took a half step back from between Newt’s legs, and charmed Newt’s waistcoat to button itself back up.

“This just arrived,” Tina said, touching down and thrusting an official-looking letter at Percival. “I’m sorry to barge in, but it looked serious and I didn’t want to risk it,” she turned to Newt, and her face turned pink and her mouth quirked. “Why are you sitting on your book, husband dear?”

Newt flushed and sprang down from the wood shelf, dusting his trousers self-consciously. Percival was reading quickly and silently.

“Am I? Call it a new method of revision. What is it, love?” said Newt, straightening up and approaching Percival. 

“It’s your Ministry,” Percival said, “But they don’t seem to want my expertise regarding interrogation, this time.” 

“I thought you had concluded that lecture series,” said Tina, frowning. “Does the British Ministry want to hire you or question you? Which department is it from?”

“Theseus,” said Newt and Percival at the same time.

“He mentioned last year that he wanted me to consult,” Percival said, nodding and handing Newt the letter. “I assumed he meant the lectures, but it appears he has something new in mind.”

“This is stuffy, even for Thee,” said Newt, skimming the missive. Tina looked at it over his shoulder. “He’s up to something. Theseus never uses this much legalese unless he is suspicious, obfuscating… wants you to meet him tomorrow at his office?”

“I’m sorry to have interrupted,” said Tina, her smile self-conscious. “I thought it was urgent.”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Percival, taking the letter from Newt and setting it on another shelf, then circling Newt’s wrists with gentle hands. “But I have more important matters to attend to.”

“Right, yes! Uhm, good night!” Tina exclaimed, and sped up the ladder and out of the case.

“You didn’t have to chase her out,” Newt said, failing to elicit any remorse from Percival, who pinned Newt’s wrists in one hand and buried the other in wavy hair. “That’s it, Perce,” Newt parted his lips and threw his head back to eye Percival from beneath his fringe and auburn lashes. 

Percival tugged on Newt’s hair, firm and gentle by turn, entangling his hand. This was one of the most efficient ways to flood Newt’s face with color. 

“Would you rather she remain?” Percival muttered into Newt’s jaw, pressing kisses down the side of his neck. Newt turned his head into Percival’s hand to give his lover better access. Percival paused to stare at the constellations of freckles across Newt’s face and down his throat. The lanky fellow had a long neck, Percival reflected. But it was missing something.

“Not as s-such,” Newt managed, breathless. “Y-you’re doing fine.”

Newt writhed against the teeth on his throat and gave a small gasp at the twin pressure on his neck and scalp, the hand pulling his hair giving Percival a longer stretch of throat to work with. Newt threaded a thigh between Percival’s legs, hooking a knee and pulling. 

Percival’s lips curved against Newt’s throat.

 

The next day was chilly for summer, so Newt felt somewhat justified in wearing his striped scarf to the apothecary in Diagon Alley. Percival was meeting with Theseus, and would meet Newt at Flourish & Blotts toward afternoon. Newt had scheduled the signing in mid-August to allow Hogwarts students a chance to meet the author of their new textbook. Pickett was the only creature accompanying him today, leaves poking out of Newt’s coat to survey the street from time to time.

Newt purchased the ingredients for common healing potions and a variety of anti-venoms which he could adapt to his traveling needs as they arose. The apothecary herself, a middle-aged witch with green-tinted and greasy hair, nodded approvingly at his selections.

“Nice to see grown wizards know what they’re about,” she said, as Newt handed her two galleons. “It’s just been students getting kitted out all day, and you know how many of those ingredients are wasted. They aren’t easy to obtain, the rarer wares.”

“The professors do their best, I’m sure,” Newt said, staring at the counter. 

The witch scoffed and handed him his change. Newt shrunk the satchels containing his ingredients, nodded at the witch without meeting her eyes, and had turned to go when she called after him.

“Mr. Scamander! Wait, I forgot to bag your bezoars,” she said. Newt knew this to be false, as he had bought powdered bezoar in glass vials. He doubled back, hand nearing his wand holster.

“Just a moment, so sorry to keep you,” said the witch, and she winked so quickly Newt thought he had imagined it. But then she slipped him a miniaturized satchel across the wooden counter with the words, “Thank you for your business. Do come again.”

Newt was so startled he met her gaze for a moment, before someone in line behind him cleared their throat and Newt forced himself to wheel around and leave. 

He stopped in across the way at Ollivander’s, where a dark-haired man of Newt’s age greeted him. He had silvery eyes, one of which was magnified through a monocle. 

“Newt! Good day. You’re looking more bemused than usual. Everything alright there?”

“Oh, hullo, Garrick,” Newt said, glancing up from tucking his purchases away. Pickett had migrated up to his collar, where he could hide and chitter almost directly into Newt’s ear. “Minding the shop today?”

“Father’s been leaning more heavily on me since his brush with Dragonpox,” said the young Ollivander. “How goes it, Newt? You’ve made quite a name for yourself since your book came out.”

“I’m sorry your father’s not well,” Newt said, meeting Garrick’s eyes for a moment. “I’ve got my usual odds and ends for you,” he reached into an expanded pocket and withdrew a canvas satchel. “No dragon heartstrings, luckily, but I came across a few smugglers and confiscated some unicorn tail and mane hairs, and there’s the usual assortment of claws and shed scales and clippings your father likes to test for the potential to conduct magic. There’s a couple of phoenix feathers, too, from a very sweet bird. He doesn’t shed much, but he gave me the pair of really lovely, wand-quality feathers, I would guess. But you’re the expert of course. Some fairy wings I found in the Black Forest, and Salamander scales, be careful, those will set fire to anything. Billywig stinger, a few Augurey feathers, Mary’s been molting…”

“We’ll have to take a look,” said Garrick, rubbing his hands together. He tugged at the laces of the satchel with long, pale, careful fingers. “My father does like to dabble, but I think once he retires, I’d like to standardize the cores. Bring it down to a manageable five or six, so that we don’t have so much variety in terms of side effects. You know how young wizards and witches get, so little control, so much energy…”

“That’s a bit of a shame,” said Newt, shrugging. “I’ve always liked the unconventional cores. Won’t standardizing them make it tricky for some to find a match?”

“Oh, not necessarily,” Garrick said, but then his eyes widened and his monocle fell out. “Are these the feathers? They’re magnificent. I’ve never seen such a pair!”

“I’m glad they’ll do,” Newt smiled briefly. Garrick turned his silvery gaze to Newt, and the magizoologist found the amazed scrutiny disconcerting.

“How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing, I’m glad to help,” Newt shrugged and looked toward the shelves of wand boxes. There was a lot of dust in the shop. Pickett had been sneezing on his collar.

“That’s absurd!” Garrick objected, gesturing at the gleaming red feathers and then waving his own, shiny cherrywood wand to repair his cracked monocle. “These are worth a fortune, Newt, you can’t just give them away.”

“They were given to me. I’m just passing them along,” Newt said firmly. “Consider it a charitable offering toward some disadvantaged child’s wand, would you?”

“Well, I suppose we could do that,” Garrick eyed Newt thoughtfully. “Let me at least tune-up and polish your wand, as a small gesture of thanks for your charitable contribution.”

Newt seemed startled, but he recovered and withdrew his wand from its holster. 

“This is unconventional indeed,” Garrick said, voice going a little dreamy as he turned Newt’s wand in his hands. Garrick’s eyebrows rose again, this time in horror. His monocle floated down to the pocket of his robes.

“Woodlice, Newt? For shame!” Garrick shot Newt an affronted glare, as though he had been insulted. “Be that as it may… Ash with lime wood handle, hmm, springy, this ought to be good toward the dark arts,” he peered at Newt with shining silver eyes, “but I somehow doubt you’re that way inclined. Good wand for defense, too, and charms. Just about twelve and a half inches, is it? Look at these gouges… frightful, frightful condition… But the core! How curious, how bizarre.”

Newt sighed.

“Bone and shell? But I cannot for the life of me tell…?”

“Belemnite,” Newt said, “It’s a fossilized inner skeleton of a type of ancient squid. There’s also some bits of mother-of-pearl. They’re extinct, now, but their ink is theorized to have had really astounding properties, to imbue the words written in it with the emotions of the writer? Their nervous systems were apparently complex, naturally empathic. My Niffler quite liked nicking it before he started to go for precious metals, as it is a bit glossy when clean.”

“Are these fang marks?” Garrick interrupted. Newt shifted from foot to foot. “Right, better you don’t say. Hold on a moment. Father really works with fascinating materials, I have never seen such a core in my life… amazing that its magical integrity hasn’t degraded, considering all the damage.”

Garrick retreated to the back of the shop, past stacks and shelves of thin, rectangular boxes. He muttered to himself as he went. Newt’s eyes fell across the canvas satchel and the phoenix feathers on the counter, and he reached into his pocket for the mysterious satchel from the apothecary.

There was a small, corked glass bottle with a whitish powder inside, and a fragment of parchment with two numbers scribbled on it. Newt opened the vial and poured a bit of its contents onto his palm, poking the powder with his finger. It was strangely luminescent.

“Oh dear, I can’t do much for the deeper scratches, but that should help,” Garrick emerged with Newt’s polished wand. The wood was clean, and some of the shallow indentations had been smoothed over. The inside of the handle gleamed silver and Newt knew he would have to dirty it before Horace caught sight of it.

“Is that powdered unicorn’s horn? That’s a controlled substance, isn’t it?” Garrick said, nearly sticking his face into Newt’s hand. “Doesn’t do anything for a wand core, not that father didn’t try.”

“Is that so?” Newt said, his face falling. “I was afraid that’s what it was.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I was hoping it might not be what it seems to be,” Newt sighed and put his wand absently in its holster. “Thank you, Garrick. Tell Gervaise hello for me, would you? I’ll be in touch if I come across anything promising for you.”

“Be careful, Newt!” Garrick called after him. “And for Merlin’s sake, keep away from woodlice!”

Pickett chittered that he disagreed into Newt’s ear from his collar and Newt muttered assurances to the effect that of course he would feed Pickett woodlice, and that Pickett ought not worry about Garrick, and that despite the dusty shop, they had much in common.

“You’re both in the wandwood business, after all, Pick.”

The vial of ground unicorn horn seemed weightier than it had been. Newt wondered what he would find at the coordinates, whether there would be any creatures still alive to save. Instead of reporting an anonymous tip to the Ministry, the apothecary had given Newt the lead. Newt had given interviews about rescues, had discussed Frank’s successful reintegration into the Mojave Desert with the Daily Prophet just last week… He ought, of course, to report this tip to the Ministry. But the official channels often took days, and if there really was a smuggling operation with any live beasts, the criminals would have plenty of time to clear out. There wasn’t time to waste.

Newt had paused outside the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, lost in thought. The excited voices of Hogwarts students rang out from within the store. Thinking a Snitch might prove a diverting exercise for his Niffler, Newt stopped in, and then it was off to the Leaky Cauldron for a quick lunch. The Snitch was secure in its enchanted little box. 

“You look like you could use a pint,” the barkeep said. Newt shook his head, mumbled something about food, and ate his fried cod and thick-cut chips with salt and vinegar, mushy peas on the side. He slid a few Knuts over and was just heading out of the bar, eyes downcast, when someone called his name.

“Mr. Newton Scamander, I say!” said the voice. Newt turned but did not recognize the speaker in the gloom of the pub.

“Can I help you?”

“Professor Horace Slughorn, Hogwarts Potions Master,” said the man. He looked to be about Newt’s age, though he had the pompous bearing of a much older man, and he reached out to shake Newt’s hand, which Newt had not offered. 

“Oh. My Niffler is also named Horace,” Newt took back his hand and tried to put on a smile. Slughorn squinted at him. Newt looked down and stopped trying to smile. “Professor Dumbledore mentioned that Swoopstikes retired.”

“So he did! So he did. Albus does go on about you—you helped him get ahold of some dragon’s blood once, did you? But I’m glad to run into you, Newton. I’ve read your book, of course,” Slughorn said, eyebrows quirked over small, pale green eyes. “By Merlin, it’s a good one. Shame you don’t talk more about the uses of creatures for ingredients. I could make it a supplementary potions text, then. Make you another pretty Knut on royalties over the years!”

Newt frowned.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure your field has benefited immensely,” Slughorn went on, “but an interdisciplinary approach would be so useful for the students, you know. A little Potions, Herbology, Creatures, to synthesize the curriculum…”

“I believe that beasts should be appreciated alive and from afar, not ground up for parts, Professor Slughorn,” Newt said coolly. “But since we’re on the topic of your expertise, do you think you could identify this substance?”

He withdrew the vial of white powder and held up his wand with a Lumos. 

“Oh dear me, dear me,” Slughorn said faintly, gazing at the luminescent powder. “That looks very much like powdered horn of unicorn, yes. Quite a rare treasure you’ve got! Useful for some rare potions, but difficult indeed to obtain.”

Newt thanked Slughorn and tucked away the vial, refusing to take the hint that Horace wished to purchase the ground horn.

“Of course, of course, happy to help out a fellow expert,” Slughorn said, crestfallen but genial. “Tell me, is your mother the famous Hippogriff breeder? And your brother is the war hero, correct? Theseus Scamander? It seems talent runs in your blood! Is it a very old family line, the Scamanders? I did not see much mention of you in the books, but they hardly constitute a reliable source…”

“Excuse me, I must be going,” Newt said faintly. His eyebrows had climbed up his forehead, and he brushed past Slughorn and toward Diagon Alley once more.

“I had some questions I was hoping to ask you,” Slughorn called after him.

“Feel free to owl,” Newt muttered over his shoulder, not slowing down on his beeline for the back door. “Good afternoon.”

Slughorn looked after the magizoologist, frowned, and went to order a pint. 

“Standoffish fellow,” he told the barkeep, “but a real talent with beasts, top of his field. Asked me to owl him, he did. Wants a correspondence with the Hogwarts Potions Master. Well, I told him I’m busy but I would try my best.”


	2. a lost (g)love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so thanks for all the feedback on the last chapter!! I'm sorry for the long wait. I'm afraid it's going to be another long while between chapters. I am investigating some health stuff and then gotta get on some work stuff, so it's slow going--and much of this is filler, which...I'm sorry! But it's setting up a few things I'm excited to actually get to, so hang in there...
> 
> always love to hear from you, and your words motivate my writing <3

Ch2. a lost (g)love

 

“Patrick still singing?” Percival said, sending breakfast plates floating across the meadow as Newt emerged from the shed, wiping his face, neck and hands with a self-cleaning towel. 

“I wouldn’t call it singing. I do feel terrible charming him silent, but he’ll drive us all mad,” Newt said, throwing the towel toward the door of his shed and taking the plates out of the air to carry them past the Bowtruckle tree and into the secluded gazebo. Percival trailed in after Newt with silverware and the steaming kettle floating beside him. Newt spooned out Percival’s coffee grounds and his tealeaves, and the kettle tilted to fill both cups.

Newt leaned over Percival’s shoulder and snuck a kiss before slouching to the other side of the table. Percival had insisted they eat proper meals, and _that means sitting down at a table, Newt, you’ve got mountains in that case, surely you can make room for a table?_

The gargantuan dung beetles on the other end of the meadow rolled their enormous balls of dung. Percival had scowled at Newt for a week before Newt took initiative and erected a gazebo surrounded by bushes of jasmine and honeysuckle, enchanted to trail up the white structure and obscure the offending sight. Percival had transformed a stump into a table. Billywigs seemed inclined to pollinate the blossoms, their spinning sending white leaves fluttering through the air.

“Do Augureys really drive people insane with their song?” Percival said, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug. “Or are you just trying to keep them off the exotic pets market?”

“I didn't lie,” Newt sniffed, buttering his toast. “The cry of the Augurey can drive one mad over extended exposure. But mostly it’s just a bit loud, and portends rain. Which, seeing as we’re in London,” Newt shrugged and took a bite.

“Hazard of the job,” Percival nodded, cutting up his breakfast sausage. “Speaking of, I'll meet you at the signing. Do you want me to pick anything up for anyone? Crickets or woodlice or flobberworms?”

Newt bit his lip in thought, and waved the kettle away from his tea. He shook his head.

“I’ll be nearby, I might as well take care of it. Were you thinking dinner in the city?”

“If you’d like,” said Percival, his tone neutral.

“You’ve been working with Credence and with Tina for weeks,” Newt said, ducking his head with a wry twist of his lips. “And I haven’t been any better, what with the outbreak of Chizpurfles and that deadline just last month, and gathering materials for the school appendices... It would be lovely to spend a little time away from work. Yesterday didn't really count for much, between the wedding and Thee's letter.”

Percival considered Newt with a softer expression. “Dinner sounds perfect. Soon as I finish with Theseus, I’ll come to the signing and take you out on the town.”

“Best let me do that, as it is my town,” Newt said, but then he added, more soberly, “And let me know what he wants?”

“I will,” Percival nodded, and looked down to where Newt had grasped his hand. There was a shivery sensation on his wrist as the Swooping Evil crawled with its pinprick claws from inside Newt’s sleeve to the inside of Percival’s, coming to rest on his left forearm. “What’s this?”

“I asked her to mind you,” Newt said, not letting go of Percival’s hand. His eyes were on the empty coffee cup. 

“What makes you think I need minding?”

“I don’t trust the Ministry,” Newt said quietly. “Just keep her close, would you?” 

 

Percival was late to the signing. Newt could neither spot his dark hair nor feel the steady thrum of his magic over the roomful of restless students and parents.

“Hi,” he said to Leta, who had volunteered to set up. Beyond the register stood a table with neat stacks of books, and a winding line of people was cordoned off with velvet rope. 

“There you are,” Leta gave a fleeting smile. “You’ve got quite a reputation as an exotic adventurer among the students. Who’s this?”

“Oh, Pickett, this is Leta. Leta, meet Pickett. Pick’s a Bowtruckle.”

“I know, I’ve read about them,” Leta said, gazing at Pickett curiously. She led Newt back to the table by the elbow, her silk dress robes fluttering behind her as she walked.

The ground unicorn horn in his pocket and his encounter with Slughorn weighed on Newt’s mind. Several times Leta tried to revive the conversation, and Newt nodded without engaging. Frederick Flourish made a rare appearance in his ancestors' bookshop to introduce Newt, and then it was autographs for a long line of adolescents and parents. Leta sat beside him, handing him copies of his book and refilling his inkwell. Her eyes lingered on his hands and she smiled briefly when he caught her staring. After several uncomfortable smiles, Leta spoke.

“Newt,” she said slowly, as Newt explained that Billywigs did not get dizzy to a concerned first-year. He had to fight the instinct to flinch at the boy’s white-blond hair. “Is there any chance at all that you’ve secretly eloped?”

Newt blinked to a halt mid-sentence.

“Uh, what makes you say that?” 

“Just that enchanted ring on your finger,” Leta said. She handed the first-year his signed book and waved him along. "There's also, ah, I'm not sure how to put this delicately... the matter of the teeth marks on your throat."

Newt swallowed and tugged his scarf higher. He had been doing fairly well making eye contact with each student and writing little notes on the inside book cover. He barely blushed and stuttered, and on Percival’s advice he had taken to ignoring personal questions. This all changed.

“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could tell your friends and family about it,” Leta interrupted before Newt had managed to begin. “But I am happy for you. Would you at least tell me who the lucky lady is?”

“An auror,” Newt said a little hoarsely. Leta looked surprised, and Newt felt heat rising in his face.

“Not my first guess,” Leta said with a short, soft laugh. “Is it someone I know? Does she work for the Ministry, with Theseus?”

“We met two years ago in New York.”

“As long as you’re happy,” Leta said, biting her lip. She clearly wanted to ask more, and was stopping herself. 

“I am,” Newt found himself saying. He would be happier when Percival arrived. Ever since Paris, he felt a certain dread during and especially after book signings. He did not think it likely Grindelwald would show up asking for another autograph, but the fear lingered. They were approximately halfway through the line of parents and students when Leta stiffened beside Newt, who found that he was being offered a cup of tea.

“Yes, thank you,” Newt said, taking the cup from Dumbledore before doing a double take.

“Hello, Newt, Leta,” said Dumbledore, beard twitching in a smile. He offered Newt a milk jug and a teaspoon. Newt glanced between the florid teacup and his former teacher and smiled, bemused.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” said Leta. 

“You know you don’t have to wait in line for me to inscribe your book, Professor,” Newt said. 

“I must insist, Newt, that you call me Albus,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. “I thought you might enjoy a familiar face at an event like this.”

Unspoken was the promise of protection for the students and Newt himself. Newt thumbed the wool of his coat, suddenly grateful. He inscribed a brand new copy of his book for Dumbledore. Leta was bristling beside him, and Newt understood why. Dumbledore had played favorites back in school, too.

“How much?”

“Oh, think of it as a reviewer’s copy,” Newt’s smile was small and lopsided, his gaze fixed on Albus’s tie. It was a shiny blue several shades darker than his eyes. Leta waved her wand over the teacup.

“I’ll just browse over here, then,” Dumbledore said, over grunts and clearings of throats from the line behind him. “Thank you, Newt.”

Newt nodded, but his shoulders sagged, some of the tension leaving him. Leta let out a breath through her teeth but made no comment. 

It was not long until Percival sidled up to the table, side-stepping the line to stand like an authoritative shadow behind Newt. Newt looked over his shoulder at him, and Percival’s wary glare softened just a bit. 

“How did it go?” Newt asked, signing a copy for a timid first-year.

“Your hunch was right. Theseus made a convincing argument for needing my help,” Percival said almost directly into Newt’s ear. Leta was speaking with a couple of parents who seemed to think Newt would be teaching at Hogwarts.

“You’re not thinking of joining the ‘Ministry family,’ are you?” said Newt, turning to stare at Percival dubiously. His quill leaked an enormous inkblot on the book he was signing.

“Don’t be so enthusiastic,” Percival furrowed his brow at the inkblot and erased it with a wave of his hand. “I’m consulting for just the one mission. It’s necessary. Theseus convinced me.”

Newt looked away, then, his ears turning red. He signed the book and handed it to the student without meeting her eyes.

“Did he?” Newt muttered, after a pause. 

“He damn well did,” Percival said, something flinty in his voice. 

Newt’s signature held more of a flourish on the next book. His knuckles were white on the quill, the nib digging deeper than necessary into the paper. 

“So you deem this mission important,” Newt said quietly. “And you won’t tell me what it is?”

“Not here, certainly,” Percival scoffed, making a third-year student jump and then blush profusely. Percival cleared his throat and she blushed brighter. He leaned in to whisper to Newt again, “Keep mum about it happening at all. No one in the Ministry except Theseus will be made aware. I’ve already broken protocol by mentioning it to you.”

“Great, put in a word about my travel ban,” Newt said tonelessly. Dumbledore was perusing his book by the door, leaning against the jamb and greeting students who approached him. He pointed at Newt and smiled, and the students around him laughed. Newt winced and looked away. Leta was giving Dumbledore a very composed stare that bordered on a glare.

“I’ll see if I can get Theseus to work on that,” Percival whispered. “I asked him about it today. He blamed Spielman and the higher-ups, of course. They wanted to have you come in, to ask you to hunt something obscure…”

“They what?” said Newt, pausing mid-signature to frown at Percival. Leta glanced between them curiously.

“I told Theseus he was crazy if he thought you would lift a finger against a beast, even if they made you Minister for it,” Percival stared down the irate magizoologist, who let out a breath. “He wasn’t happy, but I got my point across.”

“I think I’ll leave you to it,” Leta said suddenly, “It was good to see you, Newt. Please think about coming to dinner?”

“Thanks for your help,” Newt said. Percival nodded at Leta, who looked between them once more, smiled, and walked away with the gentle sway and rustle of silk.

The line was dwindling now, the passage of time hastened by Percival’s presence. The students and parents were beginning to disperse. Newt’s hand ached from signing books.

“Did you have any errands you wanted to run before dinner?” Newt said, turning to Percival once the line of people had separated into clumps of conversation, and no one seemed to require Newt’s signature. But Percival was staring at a small notebook. It looked remarkably similar to the one Theseus carried in his chest pocket, down to the crest emblazoned with an ornate ‘M’ on the cover. Aurors used them to communicate, and Percival was scowling deeply into it, eyebrows low over dark eyes.

“Percy?” Newt tried again, frowning. “What’s happened?”

“Dammit,” Percival closed the notebook and tucked it away. The abruptness of the gesture reminded Newt of Theseus. Percival rose to his feet and turned a preoccupied gaze to Newt. “I’m sorry, Newt. Something’s come up. I can’t give you the rundown of it now. I’ll try to be home early and we can catch up then.”

“You need to go back right this minute?” Newt said, lips thinning into a dubious line. He rose to his feet, too.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Percival repeated, and then he was gone. Newt stood at the table and watched the door swing where his partner’s black coat had swept out. He blinked. There was an unpleasant dryness on his tongue. 

The signing over, Newt did not linger in the bookshop. He walked listlessly and without minding his way, pace rapid enough to distract his swirling thoughts from what chaos was brewing in the Ministry. After a while, he registered that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Someone was following him. Knockturn Alley sloped to the south, just past the bend of Horizont Alley. Before Newt could wander further that way, however, something strange happened: a dark leather glove floated up to wave in front of Newt’s face. 

Newt stopped short. The glove gestured that he follow it back toward Diagon Alley, and Newt squinted at it. The glove waved him along and floated off. Newt bit his lip. He dithered. And then he followed, curious, exasperated. After a time the glove tried to lead him into a side alley. Newt leaned around the corner and saw a familiar figure standing on a distant rooftop, waving. The glove offered itself to him, and Newt took it and Apparated to stand beside Dumbledore.

“Hello again, Newt,” Dumbledore said, the glove flying from Newt’s hand to pull itself onto Dumbledore’s. “I’m afraid there are eyes and ears everywhere.”

“You mean at Flourish & Blotts? This is hardly a less conspicuous meeting place,” Newt said. They were standing on the roof of one of the aboveground wings of Gringotts. An owl was perched on the gargoyle beside them. 

Dumbledore nodded, looking thoughtful. “You may have a point,” he said, waving his wand to cast a Notice-Me-Not charm on them both, flicking it again to envelope them in a deep fog.

“Are you being followed?” Newt asked, squinting. He could no longer see the roof below his feet, let alone Dumbledore.

“Not quite, my boy,” came Dumbledore’s voice, and then the gloved hand reached for Newt’s shoulder. “Allow me?”

“Go on,” Newt said, and he was whisked away side-along. They reappeared in Muggle London, in the midst of Trafalgar Square, where companies of Muggle tourists were feeding equally vast flocks of feral pigeons. 

“One conspicuous rendezvous point to the next,” said Newt. 

“It's easiest to lose oneself in a crowd.”

“But I thought you said you weren’t being followed, Professor?” Newt stopped and stared at Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows. He had planned to be having tea or dinner with Percival by now. He was fairly sure someone had been following him, someone besides Dumbledore. He had rather wanted to lure them down to Carkitt Market, where he might corner them and get some answers.

“One can never be too sure,” Dumbledore said mysteriously. “Come along.”

Newt let out a long breath and followed Dumbledore into the thickest part of the crowd, in front of one of the two fountains. Pickett was hiding deep in his chest pocket, where he could feel Newt’s heart beat increase as they were swamped by people.

“I apologize for all the fuss,” Dumbledore said. Newt had to strain to hear him over the flow of water and the shouting of children. “I wanted to speak with you about Credence.”

“What about him?” said Newt. He was forced to speak almost directly into Dumbledore’s ear to be heard. Dumbledore's interest in Credence had not let up over the past months. Several times he had offered the young wizard a place at Hogwarts, where he might be tutored privately. On Kit's advice, Newt had refused. Percival had stepped in with Defense and Transfiguration, and Newt had covered basic Potions and Herbology, Charms and Creatures. Kit had given Credence some basic instruction in Arithmancy, and Willie had stepped up in teaching Credence Divination. Credence had taught himself rudimentary Ancient Runes, which Newt thought quite impressive. Although Credence lacked the company of those his own age, he was safe. Newt did not think it wise to bring Credence to Hogwarts, and to expect Credence's identity to remain secret.

“My sources suggest that the Ministry is aware he survived New York, and they’ve been trying to track him. It’s best he is protected and far from London. Out of the country entirely would be better.”

“I will do my best to protect Credence,” Newt said, “but the Ministry has expressly banned me from leaving the country.”

“When have bans ever stopped you before, Newt?” Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and Newt frowned.

“They would put me in Azkaban and throw away the key,” he said grimly. “No, I can protect Credence here.”

“I think you might change your mind if you take a look at this,” Dumbledore reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a clipping of the _Daily Prophet_. Near the back, a headline read: “Kelpie Reserve, First of its Kind, to Open in Wales.”

“They wrote me, asking all sorts of advice, a year ago,” Newt said, thinking back. “I was busy at the time but I gave them some pointers by owl. So they finally managed it!”

“You would not, strictly speaking, be leaving Great Britain,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling again. “The Reserve prohibits killing and hunting. It’s truly the first of its kind. The article suggests it was inspired by your book…”

Newt swallowed and Dumbledore looked up suddenly, grasped Newt’s shoulder tightly, and Disapparated. They appeared in the gardens just outside St. Paul’s Cathedral, where Muggles were strolling and picnicking on the bowling green in view of the alabaster dome.

“My apologies,” Dumbledore muttered. "The abruptness was necessary."

“I take it you know who it is that’s following me?” Newt said.

“It’s the Ministry,” Dumbledore said, his expression uncommonly serious. 

“What? Is Theseus-?” Newt began, but Dumbledore waved a gloved hand at him.

“No, it is not your brother, Newt. But that’s as far as I can narrow it down. They want Credence, and they suspect—rightly so—that you might find him. I am also under observation, I think. It is obvious that Fawley’s people do not see the threat of their paranoid policies. Their meddling will drive followers directly into Grindelwald's arms. And there are too many suspicious players to hand. It would be better for you to just disappear until the smoke clears. At least when it comes to Credence’s safety. They’re going to send someone to track him, Newt. To hunt him down. His value to Grindelwald has made him a target.”

Newt hesitated, and Dumbledore looked around again. Newt nodded when he placed a hand on his shoulder and whisked them away to Lambeth Bridge. Big Ben struck four times, its sound carrying clear over the river.

“I’ll need to think about what you’ve said, Dumbledore,” Newt said, gazing out onto the Thames. 

“That’s all I can ask,” Dumbledore nodded, and his glove flew off and patted Newt on the shoulder before returning to his hand. Newt noticed then that there was only the one, the right glove, and that Dumbledore’s left hand was bare.

When Dumbledore spoke again, he professed admiration for Newt, who blinked, bemusement writ clear on his face. Meanwhile Dumbledore was speaking about “doing the right thing no matter the cost” in a manner that Newt found disturbingly familiar. Surprise kept him quiet. Albus Dumbledore was not known for flattery or outright deception, yet here they were…

“Be well, Newt. Safe travels.”

And Dumbledore was gone. Newt exhaled a long breath, exasperated and a little put off at Dumbledore’s assumption. He looked around and Disapparated to an alley near his home, and stepped out onto a street of plain, yellow-brick Victorian houses.

He did the rounds early, anticipating Percival for dinner, needing to calm his nerves after the crowds and conversations of the day. Newt could go months without seeing humans, and just then he thought it might be preferable to the travails of social interaction endured in one day. The beasts were pleased at the extra attention. 

Dinnertime came and went without Percival’s arrival.

“There you are,” said Bunty, when Newt stuck his head out of the case. She and Credence had been minding the beast hospital in his basement. Bunty had taken to making dinner for Credence when Newt ran late, and Credence had mentioned it to Newt, who supplemented Bunty’s salary accordingly. The royalties from his book meant that money was no issue, though Newt preferred to live as spartanly as he could—as Percival would allow—and contribute the rest to burgeoning reserves like the one Dumbledore had mentioned.

Bunty was smiling hopefully at him, and Newt glanced over to discover that the table was set, and that Credence had paused with knife and fork in hand, that Bunty had dropped a piece of pie from her fork and not noticed. There was even a place for him.

“Wasn’t sure if you would be joining us today,” Bunty rushed to explain. “Is Mr. Graves down there with you? Shall I put out another place?”

“Percival’s not back yet,” Newt said, climbing out from the suitcase. “But I’d love to join you. Thank you, Bunty. I hope Elsie hasn’t been giving you and Credence any trouble?”

“No, no, her injuries seem to be healing right on schedule,” Bunty said, serving Newt a healthy portion of steak-and-kidney pie. “What did we learn today, Credence?”

“To watch out for the Kelpie,” Credence recited, eyes flicking to Bunty’s bandaged fingers.

“Oh, Bunty, you should leave the Kelpie to me,” Newt said, frowning. “It’s not worth injuring yourself. Hm, this is delicious, thank you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Bunty said, blushing.

“Right, we learned how to make steak-and-kidney pie,” Credence said, his lip curling subtly.

“I almost forgot,” said Bunty, and there was a flush of color to her cheeks again. “Tina, that is, Mrs. Scamander sent an owl by to say she’d be at the Ministry late. She apologized about missing your book signing.”

“Did she?” said Newt absently. 

“Is her sister and that Muggle baker, are they coming back to stay longer?” Bunty hazarded. “They seemed very nice.”

“They were only by for the wedding,” Newt conjured water in his glass and drained it. “Queenie and Jacob were planning to do a tour of Europe before going home, so they might be in and out the next few weeks. I gave them keys to the flat, so don’t be alarmed if they drop by.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t be the most alarming of this flat’s residents,” Credence said a little snidely.

"Credence is still upset about Mary's silencing charm running out," Bunty said, her eyes sparkling, "She gave a great cry right into his ear, nearly jumped into the Kelpie pond, he did. Mind you, I would have too," she huffed a laugh.

Dinner was a subdued affair, but a cozy one. Credence and Bunty did not provoke each other any further, and when Newt floated the idea of leaving on short notice, Bunty was as amenable as always. Credence seemed to have developed something of Newt's wanderlust, in that he brightened at the idea of leaving London. Newt bid them goodnight and took a round of his basement hospital, checking on Bunty and Credence’s work. The Kelpie’s neck looked to be healing, and the prematurely hatched Snallygaster was putting on weight. Newt cast around, but no creature seemed to be ailing. He ran a hand through his hair, which was getting too long again. He could not anticipate any exigencies that would require his presence in the near future. 

Newt climbed up, waved Bunty off home, and watched Credence retreat to his room. He went to his own bedroom, where he seldom stayed but where a bed was made up in blues and his first collection of books and sketches stood on mismatched shelves. Newt dove down into his case, sorting the detritus in his shed, cleaning here and checking on creatures there. He dropped Pickett off on the Wiggentree with the promise that he would retrieve him in the morning. They had negotiated nights spent with the other Bowtruckles to socialize Pickett. When he emerged at half past eleven, it was to an empty room.

Feeling disproportionately despondent, Newt dragged himself through his bedtime routine and lay down. He sprang back up and furrowed his brow, pacing, an old blue dressing gown thrown hastily over his pajamas. His bare feet made a soft noise on the wood floor. Newt took up a quill and opened a fresh bottle of ink—someone had restocked his desk in here, he really ought to give Bunty another raise—and drafted a letter to the Welsh Reserve. He would send it off tomorrow, after reviewing its contents. Satisfied, he capped the inkbottle and left the letter to dry, left the candle burning, and burrowed under the blankets.

The breeze from the window was brisk, stirring the gauzy white curtains. The smell of rain drifted in, and the city sounds grew sparser as the night deepened. Newt’s eyes followed the movement of the curtains. The streetlamps outside turned them a luminescent silver, like wispy remnants of Acromantula web, or the tracks an Ashwinder might make in soft, grey sand.

There was a wedding. Theseus had asked him to be best man, and Newt could not find the rings anywhere. Percival was standing on a crumbling stone dais. Behind him there was a dark curtain, fluttering ominously. Percival looked down at Newt without recognition, his eyes sliding to Theseus, who was dressed in a black suit with a chrysanthemum in his buttonhole. Percival’s eyes lit up when he saw Theseus. He reached down, giving him a hand up onto the stone platform. They both looked tired but handsome, towering over Newt. 

Newt tried to scramble up after them, but the rock crumbled beneath his feet. Theseus was looking down at him now, asking for the rings, and Newt didn’t have them. There was a clattering of hooves over stone, and a unicorn ran up to Newt. It was white and beautiful and when Newt saw it, he wanted to cry.

Most of its horn was missing, chopped clean off to leave a scarred nub in its forehead. The nub of calcified scarring had two rings grown into it, and Newt reached for them but then withdrew his hand.

He tried to explain to Theseus that he couldn’t take any more from a creature that had already lost so much. But Theseus wasn’t listening.

“How are Percival and I going to wed without rings?” Theseus said, indignant. “Come on, Newt, you’re my best man. Give me the rings. I thought beasts were your specialty. Don’t you want me and Percival to get married?”

“Of course I do,” said Newt, feeling very confused.

Dumbledore’s glove was hovering over his shoulder, gesturing him away from the wedding, but it wasn’t Dumbledore’s glove. It was the missing left glove, crooking a finger and asking him to follow. Newt waved it off, because the unicorn was running away and it had looked very sad and very hungry. Newt turned about, desperate to call it back, but it was gone. He turned back up to Percival and Theseus to find that they too had vanished. 

There was only the crumbling stone platform, an arch like a bridge, and from it, that black, grotesque curtain. He could faintly hear a melody, a chant coming from behind it. It sounded almost like waves whispering over sand.

There were steps, suddenly carved in the rock before Newt. He was rising up onto the platform. The curtain swayed without wind. Newt reached a hand out toward it, feeling cold, feeling curious. He was sure that he knew what he would find on the other side. He just had to take a few more steps…

Newt jolted awake. He was ensconced in Percival’s warm arms, and a baby Niffler had broken free of the case to steal his unused, shiny pen nibs. The dream was gone like it had never been, and Percival was drooling slightly onto the pillow next to Newt’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS I know the canon signing/book launch Newt did at F&B was March '27, but it's August '28 and I'm claiming creative license for the 2nd edition ;)
> 
> PPS some lines similar/from JKR's screenplay. I'm so sorry to rewrite scenes we've already watched, but I wanted to borrow some elements (those gloves, anyone?) and rework them within my own universe. Forgive me! Future scenes will be my own, with perhaps a line stolen here or there (but I'll mark those. I'm referring to Newt & Albus's scene here, of course)
> 
> thanks for reading!


	3. The Unicorn and the Glass

* * *  
Ch3. The Unicorn and the Glass

 

The first Unspeakable had short-cropped grey hair and intense hazel eyes. He was several inches shorter than his colleague, of medium build, dressed in an unobtrusive grey suit beneath robes of a darker grey. He held a bowler hat in one hand, and a sleek, rowan wand in the other. The second Unspeakable was also unremarkable, though he was dressed in browns, and his eyes were prone to darting and squinting.

They nodded at each other and waited as the lift descended. When the grilles opened, the wizards stepped out into a dim corridor, its black walls, floor and ceiling illuminated by too few torches. There were no windows this far below ground. The hour was late, and most employees had long gone home to their families or flats. The new moon gave no light over London.

The second Unspeakable was biting his lower lip and twirling his wand in his hand. His eyes darted to dark corners, as though he feared the torchlight shadows might materialize into Minister Fawley. The hall seemed to stretch longer as they traversed it, until finally, they came to a plain, handle-less door.

The first Unspeakable paused and tapped it with his wand. An audible series of clicks followed, as a dozen locks and wards disengaged. The door creaked and the second Unspeakable started. The first Unspeakable’s lip twitched. They entered a dim, round room. The circumference of black wall was studded with equally black, identical doors. The doors had no handles, and were nearly without discernible difference from the walls save the symmetrical protuberance of the doorjamb. This cast faint shadows in the light of the flickering blue candles that studded the wall between doors.

“Confound it!” whispered the second Unspeakable, gazing about with a clenched jaw. He sighed. “No wonder the blueprints made no sense. They’re spelled to change in a pattern known only to Unspeakables!”

The first Unspeakable shrugged and picked a door, seemingly at random. They went through and were enveloped in white and blue and pink light. It was like stepping into bright, snowy-reflected sunlight from a pitch-black room. Their eyes snapped shut, faces contorting against the gleam. After a time, the second Unspeakable cracked open his left eye.

Crystals hung from the ceiling, translucent and shining with a strange inner light. Layers and layers of transparent gemstones hovered, suspended like a dense, crystalline rain. They rendered the room opaque beyond a few meters, obscuring the distance with a fog that was all brightness and sharp facets melting from amethyst to aquamarine to rose quartz, from citrine to topaz to smoky grey. A golden rutilated stone hovered before the second Unspeakable; its translucent interior was the color of honey, and lanced with fine needles of gold, or gleaming straw. If he squinted, he could make out a landscape, a system of interconnected passages where currents of light flowed like waterways or signals. If he could look closely enough, he might decipher what was being said…

A high, tingling vibration rang through the room. It was not quite sound, not quite feeling, but it permeated the air and sank into the breastbone of the second Unspeakable. Thousands of revolving, polished facets released an inner glow and a hum that, now his eyes and ears adapted, was pulsating in time with his heartbeat.

The second Unspeakable could no more look away than cease breathing. The glass faces rotated with mesmerizing synchronicity. They floated, each facet affecting every other facet of every other crystal in a supremely delicate balance, resolving into complex constellations that mirrored their microstructure before some foreign choreography took over, but always resolving again into an intricate order. The play of refracted light complemented the harmony of the song and the movement. The resonant union of light and sound and being spoke to him, to something within him that had never been given voice before. There were relationships here, mysteries to be explored, puzzles to be solved, clues to be traced. They beckoned him warmly, and he knew he would be fulfilled just bathing in their light.

The first Unspeakable was tugging his hand. The second Unspeakable saw that the floating crystals were lovely, and tore his hand from the grasp. He took a step toward the crystals. Another.

The first Unspeakable wrenched his arm and pulled, and his colleague turned to swear at him but the first Unspeakable was strong, was pulling him toward the door again, shaking his head. The entranced fellow twisted, trying to break his grip, and then he saw why the first Unspeakable had pulled him away. The crystals floated benign and beautiful, reflected in a colorless, fathomless pool of water set directly into the floor. Without rail or guide, the pool was level with the tiled floor and all but invisible until they were nearly upon it. The texture of the liquid it contained seemed like water, but it also seemed like quicksilver, and like something more viscous, like honey, like roiling Polyjuice. Its texture changed as light struck the liquid. Its depth was impossible to gauge. The liquid was opaque, not quite white or grey or black or blue, but pregnant with all these colors, and more.

The second Unspeakable glanced between the pool and the first Unspeakable, jerked his head, and led the way out the door and back into the circular room. His face was contorted in a deep frown that looked foreign on his features. He tugged a thread loose from his sleeve and closed the door on it. This just in time, as the next moment the floor of the room was spinning madly, or perhaps the walls were rotating.

The first Unspeakable lurched, but it was indeed the walls that blurred into a black whirlpool, blue candlelight streaking like a brilliant horizon. The second Unspeakable patted his arm somewhat condescendingly.

“Yes, yes, I know what you think of our security,” he whispered, wiping his eyes discreetly. The crystal-room had been bright, and he had stopped blinking in his trance. “Pick another one, eh?”

The first Unspeakable flicked his wand at another door and it opened up onto a gleaming, glittering array of clocks, glass cabinets of hourglasses, magical bell-jars… a mad ticking filled the round room and the second Unspeakable shook his head and shouted, “No go!”

The first Unspeakable repeated his trick with the thread, this time lower along the doorframe. The room spun again. The rumbling sound quieted, the candles and doors stilling once more.

They tried another door, which opened upon an ancient stone amphitheater that descended into darkness. It gave them pause, and also goosebumps. The second Unspeakable said, “Maybe, but let’s keep looking,” and the first Unspeakable sandwiched another thread in another doorjamb.

The dizzying routine went on. The next door opened outward, unlike the others. The second Unspeakable felt a draft and the smell of vinegar, and he nodded, his face set. He and the first Unspeakable went through the fourth door with their wands raised, back to back against the darkness of a vast, unlit room.

“ _Lumos!_ ” said the second Unspeakable. Instead of his wand lighting up, however, rows and rows of candles in sconces flared to life, reflected infinitely in mirrors along the walls and ceiling and floor. The first Unspeakable gasped, his first sound of the night. He swore, his accent cutting through the thick silence of room.

“Making an effing bags of this mission,” said the first Unspeakable. He was staring in dismay at his colleague, whose skin was bubbling up as the Polyjuice wore off. “Mercy Lewis, man, a Truth Glass? What, you didn’t think they see through Polyjuice?”

“I didn’t know!” Theseus objected, staring in the mirror where he was reflected next to Percival Graves. “The atrium was the main issue. There’s no further security down here, so long as we don’t set off any alarms we should be fine. Just… keep moving. It’ll be here somewhere.”

“I still think a Sneakoscope would suffice,” sniffed Percival, who was wearing the Unspeakable’s face beside Theseus, but his own in the mirrors. His Polyjuice had not yet expired.

“No, no, no,” Theseus muttered, inching along a narrow aisle. There were shadows in the mirrors, with grayish eyes without pupils. “Foe Glass? No, that’s not it. A Sneakoscope is not fine-tuned enough for our needs. It’ll catch dishonesty of every kind, and this is a government office. There’ll be loads of political intrigue about, setting it off. Too much noise. Bit like a Remembrall—pretty and flashy, but ultimately useless.”

“What’s this subtle instrument you’ve set your heart on, then?” said Percival, shining the tip of his disguised wand high to set thousands of reflected balls of light hovering near the ceiling. They both winced until the brightness diminished.

“It’s an esoteric artefact, a mirror that doesn’t reflect what’s before it,” Theseus said, after a silence. “Rather, it reflects what’s behind us. Our choices, our allegiances, our betrayals, our loyalties. I don’t know how it works. I don’t know what it’s called. But I’m certain it exists, I’ve seen oblique references to such an artefact. And this would be the place for it, Graves. Somewhere here. That’s the reflection we’re looking for, that will show us who’s been leaking intelligence to Grindelwald.”

“How would that differ from an ordinary mirror?” said Percival. His reflected face scowled from a mirror grown smoky with age. “Our own motivations drive us. We’re loyal to ourselves.”

“It’s not that simple for most people,” Theseus shook his head. The mirror corridor he had chosen had opened up on a circular space in the center of the room with an endlessly high ceiling, a circular space where there stood a perfectly round stone, its surface worn and table-smooth. Upon it lay three hand mirrors, unremarkable save for their diminished size. Each one was barely the size of the palm of Theseus’s hand.

Theseus and Percival went up to the stone and looked down. All three mirrors reflected the darkness where the ceiling must be. One had an ornate silver frame, and its glass was grainy with dust. Another was in a weathered frame, gilt worn down to greenish copper by time. The glass was pristine. The third mirror was a fragment of a larger mirror, its edges jagged and unframed, and it had smudges as of fingerprints on the glass.

“Is it safe to look?” Graves drawled. “To touch? Wards? Curses?”

Theseus frowned and waved his wand around them, creating a sound-dampening ward. Percival checked for triggers and traps, making short, jerky motions with his wand. He shrugged, and Theseus reached out and took the silver mirror. He blew on its surface to remove the dust. His breath fogged the glass, and when it cleared, Theseus’ eyes widened.

Percival leaned to look, but there was nothing but darkness reflected in the mirror—slowly swirling darkness and dust. Theseus seemed to be seeing something, however. His eyes were following an invisible story. He made a strangled noise, swallowed, and put the mirror gingerly down onto the stone. Its glass immediately dulled beneath a skein of dust.

“Alright?” said Percival, furrowing his brows at Theseus.

“Yeah,” said Theseus, after a moment. “Yeah, that’s not it.”

“We’ll take turns,” Percival said firmly.

He swallowed and his jaw tensed when he took the weathered, gold and copper-green mirror. He did not look into the clear glass at once. When he did, he saw his own face looking out of it. The Polyjuice was gone from his face, too, as if it had never been.

“I don’t think this is what we’re looking for,” Percival observed, “But a Revealing Glass of this power is impressive.”

He put it back. Theseus turned to the third mirror, but Percival suddenly felt a strange pull toward the first one. Before he could question this impulse, he had wrapped his fingers around the silver handle and brushed the dust from it with his other hand. The dust flaked off as though it had spent desiccated ages on the mirror’s surface. Percival leveled a curious gaze at the mirror. He saw himself in newsprint, a moving, black and white picture of his face overgrown with stubble, his eyes bright over dark circles. Next to his face was Newt’s, also tired, the blonde stubble aging him handsomely—the Daily Prophet declared Percival and Newt possibly dead, definitely dangerous. Newt’s photograph smiled and turned into his face, grimacing in pain. The mirror was small, limiting Percival’s field of vision. He saw a graveyard, a flash of red light, and for some reason two hands, one clutching the other. They were bony hands, freckled, scarred, and familiar. Percival stared as they wrenched, white-knuckled, and then stilled.

The hands were still, but the mirror was shaking. The mirror was shaking in Percival’s hands. It was beginning to gather dust again, and Percival saw his own agonized reflection, and blew air to banish the dust and prolong the vision—it couldn’t end there! The mirror showed him a glimpse of darkness, and then a rundown house with a muddy lawn, an old man made ugly by the expression of hatred on his face as he caressed golden trinkets. Percival saw Horace the Niffler. And then the mirror coated itself in dust, its reel played through.

Percival’s jaw twitched as he lay the mirror down. Theseus was still picking up the jagged mirror, using both hands, was just beginning to peer into it. It was as though no time at all had passed, though Percival was sure he had spent long minutes gazing into the silver mirror.

Percival looked over to Theseus’ shoulder into the fragment of mirror.

The smudges clouded Percival’s sight. Whatever he was seeing made Theseus inhale sharply, and then he gestured at Percival, who reached down into a pocket of his grey robes and handed Theseus what appeared to be a wickedly sharp, white spearhead.

“Nundu claw?” Theseus muttered, carefully tracing a Knut-sized circle out of the edge of the jagged mirror with the claw.

“Wampus nail clipping,” Percival said. “One of the few natural means of preserving the enchantment while breaking the vessel. You said spellwork’s traced down here?”

“Indeed,” Theseus carefully broke off the small fragment of mirror and slipped it into an envelope and into his pocket. “That’s that, then, old chap. Good work. You got more Polyjuice, right?”

Percival’s ebony wand rested in his pocket while the spare rowan wand, registered to the Unspeakable whose hair Theseus had acquired, tapped the mirror Theseus had cut. The jagged edges spread and morphed and grew to scab over the missing section, until the mirror looked unchanged. Theseus rubbed the smudges with his borrowed brown robes to blur them.

“There is one other small thing,” Theseus said, as they watched the doors spinning again. Percival let out a long-suffering sigh. “I mean, that dusty place with the glowing clocks? Beyond there is a records room where they keep a few of the lost verses of Tycho Dodonus. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Since when do you subscribe to prophecies?” said Percival, cocking his brow.

“I don’t,” Theseus confessed, “But Leta does. And she’s been awfully morose of late. I’m sure this will help.”

“So if I understand correctly, you want us to break into the hall of prophecy and steal the lost verses of some madman’s poetry in order to what? Cheer up your fiancée?”

“Pretty much,” said Theseus, opening the door with the second shortest thread. Percival shrugged gracefully, his expression dubious.

“You Scamanders will be the death of me. Cheers,” said Percival, handing Theseus a corked glass flask. The wizards clinked flasks and grimaced at the muddy texture, before their faces morphed back into those of the first and second Unspeakable.

* * *

“Dismantle your wards, or the baby-corn gets it!”

“Please, she’s just a foal,” Newt raised his hand and got a stinging hex across his palm. He winced and tried again, “Why would you hurt her and risk bringing a curse down on yourself?”

“Superstitious nonsense!” cried Burke, waving his wand furiously. “Of course you’d want to spread such rumors!”

“Do you believe the earth is flat, too?” said Newt, eyebrows climbing. There was no educating some people. He received a stinging hex across his forearm, which he raised to shield his head just in time. His wand was on the table, next to a bottle of elf-wine and a goblet.

“Next one takes off its tail,” Burke growled. Newt swallowed and, against every instinct, opened his case.

Burke’s face lit up. He cast _Incarcerous_ onto Newt, who wobbled and fell back against the half-starved foal, bound at wrist and ankle.

“Don’t hurt anyone in there! Don’t even get close to them! They’ll attack! They’re dangerous!” Newt cried. But Burke had already disappeared into the case.

Newt tried to wriggle free. The golden unicorn foal nuzzled him. She was too thin, too young to be separated from her harras. Burke had disarmed Newt in a moment of distraction, when Newt’s scarred right hand had pulsed with hot pain. Newt had practically dropped his wand into the disarming spell.

Now it was frustration that burned hot in him, and Newt used it. He twisted and kicked the leg out from beneath a table with his bound feet. The table collapsed, and the bottle of elf-wine fell and shattered, goblet and wand rolling across the floor. Newt struggled over to position a shard of glass and saw at the rope binding his wrists.

His wand lay in a puddle of elf-wine. Newt took it and climbed swiftly down into the case.

It was in disarray. His notes—his detailed, organized notes for the third edition revisions, for the continental appendices—were scattered, torn and ink-stained. There had clearly been a struggle of some kind. Dougal faded into view, a gash down the side of his expressive face oozing blood.

Newt bit his lip, gaze turning sharp. He straightened and advanced with hushed footsteps, narrowed eyes and a wand dripping with dark red. His predatory gait was unusual enough to keep the startled Mooncalves from flocking him when he passed them in the Diricrawl and Nundu’s savannah, their wide eyes pained by the sunlight. They were huddled together and shivering in one mass.

Burke had a magically expanded rucksack, and he was shoving bits of the Niffler’s hoard into it, fighting over an emerald brooch with Horace, who tugged on the trinket with his little paws. Despite the charms, the rucksack was bulging with items. Newt saw the Hand of Glory’s decaying fingers poking from a pocket. For all of Burke’s success in trapping Newt (and Newt was the first to admit that pursuing vague tips of orphaned creatures was becoming an increasingly risky habit), he was standing with his back exposed.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Burke’s wand flew out of his hand.

“I don’t take your actions lightly,” Newt stepped forward, wand trained low. He pushed his floppy fringe back and sighed, seeming to deflate. When Burke opened his mouth to speak, Newt’s wand jumped in warning. “However, you did deliver the unicorn. I’ll let you keep the artefacts. But not your memory, I think… _Obliviate! Confundus_!”

He was becoming more ruthless than he liked, Newt reflected. His hand pulsed with burning pain, but he ignored it as he escorted a confused Burke to the village pub, where he suggested Burke imbibe far too much alcohol. Having treated Dougal and calmed the Mooncalves and the Nundu, Newt saw to the welts on his own arms. The bruises would fade soon enough, but the damage done to a unicorn foal separated from its family… he was less certain. The powdered horn had belonged to an adult unicorn, and there were none of those here.

It was exhausting work, growing a forest. Newt pushed his magic to the limit, channeling his frustration and anger into energy, into nourishment for saplings and blackberries and clover. Vegetation sprung up, chamomile carpeting the forest floor with fuzzy foliage and tiny flowers.

Vaguely light-headed, he watched the foal sniff at its habitat and begin to munch oats out of his repurposed Hogwarts chest. She was eating. Good. Newt shut his eyes and when he opened them, Dougal was looking up at him.

“Tea time, is it?” the magizoologist gave a pained grin and followed the Demiguise. Dougal had a thin line of white amid his silvery fur from Burke’s curse and Newt’s healing.

Newt brewed a strong Assam to alleviate the ache behind his eyes. It was times like this he missed Percival most, when his eyes fell on the coffee beans and he felt cold and shivery from magic expenditure and a hostile, ignorant world. Newt made himself a bowl of watery oatmeal and a mental note to restock on human food.

Burke’s ambush had derailed his unicorn-rescue mission somewhat, but Newt would regroup and head back to London. Credence, on loan with Bunty to assimilate their cured Kelpie among its own kind, remained in the Welsh Reserve. 

Newt gathered his magic to Apparate the case outside an old, wayside inn. He felt absence more keenly than ever before, trekking through the wilds and villages with his case, both like and unlike old times. True, Percival had been somewhat distant of late; his secret work with Theseus required long hours at the Ministry. The week before Newt left, they had only spent scarce morning hours together. But if it meant Percival felt needed, felt fulfilled, then Newt could content himself with their morning coffee and tea, with waking up to find Percival had joined him in bed, with brief morning kisses and hastily prepared breakfasts in the case, surrounded by honeysuckle and Billywigs.

Newt’s wards were somewhat weaker than usual, and exhaustion weighed down his limbs when he clambered down into the case. He downed a diluted dose of Dreamless Sleep and climbed back out to collapse into the bed in his rented room. The phantom pains in his hand troubled his sleep: the potion was a concession to several days’ insomnia.

Two villages over, Burke was tossed off the stoop of the local pub, delirious from drink. The Niffler crept out of the rucksack with most of the contents in its pouch and made its way faithfully back to its burrow.

No one stole from Horace.

 

The next morning, Newt spent feeding and reassuring his creatures and reorganizing his notes. There was ink all across his sketch of Patrick the Augurey, and then Persimmon, the unicorn foal, wandered into the Cerberus’s habitat and he had to play several songs to calm Eleusia after he shoved her aside to retrieve Persimmon from the muddy banks of the pond… the hoof-cleaning took him through lunch. He shoveled down oatmeal flavored with honey (Persimmon took a liking to it, too, and preferred his bowl). The sketch of Patrick finally redone, Newt reflected that he ought to do Fawkes, now that his feathers had come in. His hand pulsed periodically now, despite the bandages soaked in Murtlap essence. Dittany had done nothing for it either. Newt had never known scars to flare to life like this, but he tried to put it out of his mind. One thing led to another, and he lost himself in revisions and editing until a loud, sharp knocking on the top of his case alerted Newt to the time.

He emerged to find the Jobberknoll, who had squeezed through his wards effortlessly, pecking the lid of the case.

“Quit it, will you? You’ve marked it up enough,” Newt said with no real bite, taking the letter from the blue bird. He propped the case and the Jobberknoll dove down, eager for a snack. Newt eyed the letter. He recognized the writing. His stomach growled, then, and he put the letter aside, unopened.

The communal dining room was crowded with late diners, many of them traveling merchants. The road was a popular one, and the time of year good for travel. Newt kept his head down and ordered a hearty stew at the bar. Behind him, a group of drinking buddies burst into song. He was halfway through his stew when a man sat next to him at the bar.

“Buy you a beer, traveler?” he said. Newt glanced over his spoon in mild surprise.

“I’m alright, ta,” he said, looking back into his stew.

The stranger cleared his throat.

“I’m sure you’d like to hear what I got to say, Mr. Scamander,” he said in an undertone. Newt turned more fully but the man wore a hooded cloak, and Newt couldn’t make out his face.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Newt said, gazing warily into the darkness out of which the stranger’s eyes barely caught the light.

“You won’t regret hearing what I’ve got to say,” the stranger repeated, “But not here. Somewhere more private. Come to the eastern dining room when you’re done here.”

He rose and left. Newt spent a moment blinking and mouthing wordless questions to the empty seat next to him. He sighed and set to work finishing his stew. Shuffling a Sickle out of his pocket, Newt asked the elf barkeep to send tea to the eastern dining room.

Clearly he hadn’t learned his lesson about anonymous tips.

The eastern dining room was empty when Newt arrived. The fire crackled in the fireplace and the table was laid with untouched dinnerware. Another house elf had served tea on a low table beside the pair of armchairs near the fire. Newt surreptitiously ascertained that the tea had not been tampered with.

When his mysterious informant didn’t materialize, Newt doubled back to his room to check on the case. The Niffler had snuck into his wards, but no one else had got in or out. Newt shrugged and opened the letter. He read it quickly, then again, slowly.

_Dear Newt,_

_Allow me to begin by sharing my delight and offering my congratulations on your recent nuptials! I heard along the grapevine that Mrs. Scamander is a very talented young Auror. I hope your life together brings you both personal and professional success. Your love of American law enforcement ought to be repaid in kind, though it seems politically the Americans are tending toward isolationism once more. I am certain your brother’s position in the Ministry gives him a better perspective on recent developments._

_To speak of Theseus, I had the pleasure of meeting him (and indeed, a squad of Aurors) in my very own classroom today. Apparently, I am a person of such interest that I merit the Ministry’s finest! They inquired pointedly about you and your travel plans, though I had naught to tell them on the matter. Like the wind, Newt Scamander pays little heed to the lines we draw on maps when he hears of a beast in need. Would you ask the wind to stay? Travers suggested my florid metaphors were inappropriate and that the wind might be arrested, at which point Theseus asked most politely if his colleague was threatening his brother. They exchanged words and then proceeded to interrogate me on other matters, which, having little to do with our present situation, I found highly irrelevant. But what is a simple teacher to do? I am now being somewhat invasively monitored by the Ministry—for the good of national security, they tell me. Fawley’s men do seem to see the world in stark monochrome. I just hope I can show more of my students that the world is not so grim, nor so devoid of color._

_If you ever require aid, my fireplace is always open to you._

_With warm regards,  
Albus_

Newt blinked and shoved the letter into an inner pocket of his waistcoat. A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts.

Newt took his case into his left hand and raised his wand in his right.

“Who’s there?” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

“Sorry, sorry,” said the voice Newt recognized from the bar. “Apologies, I confused my cardinal directions. It happens much too often—went to the west dining room. T’was booked for a witches’ ball, got turned around in the hullaballoo. I did want a word, though.”

Newt could not justify hiding from someone who used the word ‘hullaballoo’ in conversation. He waved his wand to open the door.

“Right, come in, then, but don’t try anything, please,” he said, eyes appraising the stranger without meeting his gaze.

“Awful glad I caught up to you, Mr. Scamander,” said the stranger, pulling back his hood. His face was inhuman, and it took Newt a moment to place where he had seen similar features. “Mam was a hag, da was a goblin,” the stranger obliged, nodding and blinking slowly. His long, crooked nose had hair sprouting from it, as did most of his skin. “I usually keep me hood on in company, but you may find me professionally interesting! It was a blasted difficult thing to do, tracking you down, Mr. Scamander.”

“You’ve found me,” said Newt. He holstered his wand but kept a sure grip on his case, feeling adrift in the flow of words.

“So indeed! So indeed,” said the stranger. “Hm, I never did introduce myself? Call me Doris, at your service.”

“Good to meet you,” said Newt. His bemusement was only growing.

“You are going up to Scotland to start a zoo?” said Doris, raising bushy eyebrows.

“You said you had something to tell me?” said Newt, frowning. The Irish reservation was still in its planning stages and not widely advertised. The Welsh Reserve had inspired Newt, who wanted to make the Irish equivalent and another success story; the first of many swathes of land reserved for creatures and hidden from Muggles and wizards alike.

“That I do, that I do,” Doris seemed thoughtful. “Look here, Mr. Scamander. The thing is, I barely got out with my life. It was a nasty incident, a nasty incident. Not strictly legal, you understand? But I thought if anyone could help, it would be you, Mr. Scamander.”

“Go on,” said Newt gently. Doris looked to be sweating.

“Was transporting a variety of potions ingredients, not all of them strictly legal, yes? And I realized, the eggs, they were ready to hatch, they weren’t unfertilized like the seller had said, they were right ready,” Doris shrugged.

“The penalties for trafficking creatures are steeper than for trafficking ingredients,” Newt observed.

“Exactly so! Exactly so. So’s I see they’re about to hatch, I put a strong stasis on them. But my sellers double-crossed me, they set up an ambush. The long and short of it is, they caught me and took all my ingredients, and the eggs, too. Maybe they did know the eggs were going to hatch, or maybe they did it by accident. Don’t know. They beat me up something awful. Don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Newt. “Who was your seller? Where are they now?”

“That’s just what I wanted to tell you, just what I was wanting to say,” said Doris, looking up at Newt with a vengeful spark in his eye. “I tracked them, see, and they been there for a week now while I was looking for you, Mr. Scamander. While I was looking and they were there. The Dambovita River Dam, Mr. Scamander. Rumania. You’ll show those double-crossing poachers, won’t you Mr. Scamander? For the sake of the hatchlings, Mr. Scamander?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really wanted to give you this earlier, for Christmas, but editing & planning is taking longer than usual. Thank you so much for the feedback and the kudos, guys <3 I really, really appreciate your time and any words or comments you might leave me with! :')
> 
> have more of this planned now, but is still very slow going. tbh it's a little daunting following DbtD--I poured my soul into that for over a year, and I don't think I have the energy to do the same thing here--but! I think this can still be a fun ride, and hopefully worth the time and the wait. 
> 
> Have a good new year, folks! See you in 2019 -- probably a little ways into it, at this pace


	4. A House Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to go back to ch1 and see the amazing illustration I commissioned from axil <3 #gramander
> 
> And also, I'm so sorry that this is taking me so long to update! Thank you for sticking with me & this story <3 Bear with me, the plot is lifting off now. 
> 
> If you don't mind, please do let me know what you think of the characterizations here. I have reasons for their behavior, but I'm curious how it reads to you, if it feels very wrong/off, or just puzzling...? I'm aiming for the latter, ideally :)
> 
> More Keats, cos nothing else quite fit

* * *  
Ch4. A House Call

 

Newt pocketed the Acromantula egg and risked a backward glance. There was a crimson smear on the floor, trailing across jagged bits of wood and metal. More urgent were the wizards with raised wands. 

Coming up to a crouch, Newt felt the heat and trill of three spells converging on him. He disapparated around the corner, panting. Three blasting curses hit the air where he had just been. The hallway resonated with the explosion, a wash of light and magical discharge that set his teeth on edge. He peered about the corner with wide eyes below a messy fringe: the room was empty. 

Newt swallowed and winced at the sudden stinging pain. His wand hand came away red from his side and he muttered, “ _Episkey_!” with a flick of his wand. The pain lessened fractionally.

He had taken out the first two wizards, but the Iron Guard had surprised him and the traffickers both. The men had grabbed the box and bolted. One lone egg had rolled across the floor in the heat of battle. It had rolled, clicking gently, to Newt’s feet. Its survival was nothing short of miraculous. 

Newt had removed his boots in aid of sneaking about the metal-grate floors above. Tied by the laces, they dangled over his shoulder, beating against his back and chest as he skidded in his socks across the linoleum of the corridor leading off the control room and toward the lifts. He could hear the shouts and sneezes. The Peruvian darkness powder had done the trick upstairs, but it would not be long, now. The traffickers would be after him soon, and the Iron Guard not far behind. Was it his spectacularly rotten luck, running in on traffickers who were about to make a deal with the Guard? Or had his informant been hoping to use Newt to ruin their deal? Newt had the unpleasant feeling his recent travels had been guided by an outside hand.

“Can’t entirely blame Dumbledore, this time,” he whispered to his buttonhole, “Get down, Pick. We aren’t clear yet.”

Newt veered into the stair access doorway when the elevator opened to reveal a group of five wizards, the insignia of the Iron Guard a prominent black cross on their green robes. He huffed “ _Colloportus_!” and set down his case to pull on his boots before grabbing it again, rushing down the stairs and deeper into the dam. 

Newt missed the last few steps and landed in a crouch to spare his knees. This deep into the dam, he could hear the pipes groaning. The Muggles thought it a simple, earthfill dam, but in truth the Dambovita was an experiment in the transport and alteration of magical eddies and currents, tucked out of sight beneath the river. Viorel had told Newt about it one night, though Newt had never expected to visit the dam in question. The damp bedrock was permeated with many decades’ worth of industrial potions runoff from the laboratory complex upstream. Magic and mechanism kept the water away from the bedrock, which had highly unusual properties and had been known to float in the air and dissolve. The dam was widely studied for its impressive engineering—the Rumanian Ministry had brought in experts from around the globe to charm and ward the turbines to conduct the magic without dispersing it, to collect and concentrate the magical essence that had been spilled over many years.

Newt found it infinitely curious that the flow dynamics of potions runoff hinted at the behavior of magic. But Newt was unfamiliar with the technicalities. He wished he had listened to Viorel go on and on about the tunnels through the turbines more closely, however, now it seemed he would need to use them to hide, heal, and then return for the rest of the Acromantula eggs.

Disapparating with only the one was out of the question. Or, well, it had been. Newt doubled over, breath coming in short pants, pain lancing through his side. Now he looked down, he noticed the dark spots on the floor. He seemed to be leaving a trail: there was a heavy drip of blood down his side, along his leg and on the instep of his right boot. Careless. Newt considered vanishing the trail and conjuring bandages around his side, but the damage had been done: footsteps echoed down the tunnel. Instead, he stashed his disillusioned case at the entrance to another tunnel and turned about. Newt took a deep breath and sank to the floor, as though the pain had overwhelmed him.

 

By the time Newt staggered back into the same tunnel, his newly conjured bandages were dark with blood. His nose was bruised and bleeding down his lip and chin, and a long, angry scrape ran down the side of his face from temple to throat. His wrists were raw from wrenching in rough ropes, and his coat was charred black from where Newt had twisted bare skin out of the way of the heated iron cross the fanatics had been intent on branding him with. 

“I’ve never known a Bowtruckle to gnaw through rope,” Newt muttered to Pickett, who was still spitting up fibers. “Thanks, Pickett. I mean it.”

Ever since Percival had used Fawkes’s tear on his back and rid Newt of the scarred deathly hallows, Newt had tried rather desperately to avoid acquiring new scars. They seemed to upset Percival, of course, but Newt also felt he ought not to waste Fawkes’s gift.

Newt had stuffed his pockets full of Acromantula eggs after the Iron Guard had left him, bound and seemingly unconscious, to heat the brand. He had knocked out two of them and only just escaped the hissing hot iron that landed on his coat, scalded his hair, and narrowly skated up the side of his face. He had spelled it to sprout ice crystals and received a scrape rather than a burn for his trouble.

When the third Guard cried out for aid, Newt had disapparated back into the depths of the dam. It would perhaps have been wiser to go above ground, but he figured no one would expect him to return here, where he had stowed the case. He spelled the Acromantula eggs down and shut the case with a click, exhaling and deflating. 

“I don’t know why I expected anything to be simple,” he said to Pickett, sinking down to sit on his case and listening to the whirr of the turbines. Pickett was chittering, insisting on something, and it was strangely soothing. “Just give me a mo’.”

He leaned against the wall, head thrown back, eyes closed, breathing through his mouth because his nose was too bruised and swollen.

 

A man crouched level with him, black coat trailing onto the floor. His coiled form held the power and violence of a compressed spring. His eyes followed the scrapes and dried blood on Newt’s face before settling on the light eyelashes and scattering of freckles across cheekbones. They lingered on Newt’s elongated throat, the line of his jaw, and then slid to the bloodstain growing at Newt’s ribs. A knobby white wand appeared in a pale hand and edged inside Newt’s coat until it rested atop the bloodstained vest. Though he did not open his eyes, Newt could feel the other wizard’s surreal presence and gaze. He thought it an injury-induced hallucination until he felt his side begin to knit together, his ribs shifting beneath the new skin, inflammation melting away. The wand traced the scrape on his face, then, and his nose, healing and cooling and soothing and cleaning. Newt opened his eyes to find the wand aimed just between them. He raised a hand and swatted it from his face, slowly, deliberately.

“Darling,” said the man, allowing his wand to be redirected. “Your daring has been costly. I am not in the habit of making house calls.”

“Gellert?” said Newt, his hoarse voice coming out a whisper, surprise slackening his face. He blinked, turned his head down and to the left, blinked rapidly and glanced back up. The surprise was replaced by weariness. “Those were your men.”

“They are politically aligned with my cause,” Grindelwald hedged. He seemed hesitant. He ignored Newt’s wand, now pointing at his sternum, and reached for a handkerchief with which he dabbed at Newt’s lip and chin.

“I followed your trail of breadcrumbs,” Newt said, when the handkerchief was withdrawn. “Was sending an owl too conventional, then?”

“Would you have come?” Gellert considered Newt ruefully from beneath lowered eyelids. Newt noticed that his eyelashes were as white as his hair. 

Newt didn’t respond. He swallowed thickly when Gellert rose from his haunches. 

“They were overzealous. But I expected you to run loops around them,” Grindelwald made it sound like Newt had disappointed him.

“Did you?” incredulous, Newt also staggered to his feet. “Was it the poachers or the fascists I was supposed to run around? Did it occur to you that these creatures, these unborn creatures, are more than bait for whatever you need me for? That you were risking their lives before they even had a chance to begin? Those poachers nearly smashed the eggs!”

“They are in safe hands, now,” said Grindelwald. Newt bristled, breathless and ardent with indignation. “You ought to thank me for alerting you to the situation. For healing you. You are being remarkably ungrateful, Newton…”

Grindelwald raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to crowd Newt into the wall. Newt was pushed back over his suitcase, balance unsteady, ribs tender, shoulder blades meeting concrete. There was a growing flush to his skin, and a furious tingling where the healing magic had not yet retreated. 

“You engineered the situation,” Newt shot back. He grasped at the anger, desperate to subsume the fear and worse, the longing beneath it. “I wouldn’t need healing if not for you.”

Grindelwald didn’t flinch, but there was a tightening around his eyes and mouth. 

“That’s true,” he said.

“What do you want now? Is there another potion needs testing? Shall I thank you for that?”

Newt took the emotion in Grindelwald’s eyes to be anger, and closed his eyes, certain he was about to be cursed. But Grindelwald did no such thing. Newt peeked to find Grindelwald surveying him with a frown. The cruel glint was present in his eyes, but so was something else, something unfamiliar entirely. 

The whir and creak of water in the pipes rang loud in the brief silence.

“Did you feel abandoned at first, my pet? Set free, granted everything you desire, only to find it lacking? Is it your guilt that keeps you with Graves, when you dream only of me? Even now, injured, trembling, you incite my ire.” 

Gellert was staring at him with wide eyes filled with a hungry sort of wonder, was leaning forward and pinning him with a forearm to the clavicle. 

Newt allowed it, half from surprise and half due to the look of bloodstained bliss on Gellert’s face. Had he been inviting this?

“You confuse dream with nightmare,” Newt said finally. 

“The two are often intermixed, are they not? Fear and desire in equal measure,” Grindelwald gave a small, fleeting smile, and its sincerity took Newt’s breath away. Gellert’s eyes flicked down to Newt’s mouth when he gasped.

“But I was surprised at how keenly I felt your absence,” Gellert pressed on, serious and malicious in his honesty. “Though I knew it to be temporary, tethered as we are.”

“Tethered?” Newt said faintly, following Grindelwald’s gaze to his right hand: to the ropy scars that twined both their right hands. 

Gellert took his right hand in his, Newt’s wand balanced between their hands, their scars aligning with perfect symmetry into pink-white spirals. Gellert’s hand was warm, dry and bony. Newt slipped his hand from the intimate grasp.

“Why did you lure me here? Why the ‘house call?’”

“You once told me that it is impossible to tame dragons. That it would never be in their nature to follow orders. That the best you could do…was to gain their trust,” Grindelwald took Newt’s hand again, fingers running gently along the back of it.

“Merlin’s beard. You’re joking,” Newt blinked, lips parting and eyebrows rising. But Grindelwald pulled Newt by the hand into one of the tunnels, where intricate runes had been etched up and down the walls and along the ceiling. Newt had not noticed them in his earlier haste.

“What-?” he began.

Gellert hushed Newt, casting about with his magic. Newt felt it wash over him, familiar and foreign at once, the zing of ozone that brought gooseflesh, the sickly sweetness that Newt had once craved and now found repellent. Pears, bourbon, lilacs, Muggle cigarettes. “Can you feel it? The magic swirling about us?” Grindelwald said softly. “Don’t merely look. Reach out and feel it, Newton!” 

He brought his wand to Newt’s temple and tapped. Newt reeled, his balance gone, Grindelwald’s presence the only solid object in a world suddenly inundated with color and movement. The walls swam with auroras, the floor and ceiling and air all shimmering with flecks of something. Floaters formed currents across his vision. Newt’s head hurt just looking at it, and he could not name a single color or describe its texture. The brightness was unceasing and mutable, turbulent. Yet sometimes the patterns resolved into spirals flitting into smaller spirals, a beehive of intricate flow and ebb and flow. It was too vivid, overwhelming in its intensity. Newt’s eyes could not process much of what he was seeing. Later, he would suddenly recall the movement of a particular current or color and make sense of its path in context with his own spellwork.

“… _then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, or on the wealth of globed peonies; or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, and feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes_ ,” Grindelwald was reciting in a hushed voice. Newt’s senses returned slowly, the swirling magic fading to shadows on his retinas. He was gripping Grindelwald’s shoulders for dear life, gasping for air, blinking tears from his eyes. Grindelwald’s left thumb rested lightly on his windpipe, hand curling against his neck. Pickett was tugging on Newt’s hair, the case digging into his calves. They were back whey they had started, out of the tunnel of runes, and Grindelwald was watching awareness creep back into Newt’s dazed eyes.

“You were wreathed in black and silver flames,” Newt gasped suddenly. The image remained in his mind: Grindelwald’s head inclined toward him, silvery-blue eye veiled with cloudy white and glowing, all of him enveloped in silver fire tainted with charred black. Newt tore his hands away, swaying back to lean against the wall. He was breathing hard and fast. The hand on his neck had been grounding; he almost regretted its loss.

“It’s the dark arts, isn’t it? You’ve dabbled where you shouldn’t have, and it’s poisoned your magical core, corrupted it,” Newt muttered, eyes flitting to meet Gellert’s eyes and widening. “You’re proud of it.”

“You’ve a way of seeing through me, my dear,” Grindelwald said quietly, holding Newt’s gaze across the fresh distance. “Yes, I reached out into the old magic, beyond the limits of what wizards allow themselves to know, and I became more. But I see you too, Newton. Do know what I saw of your magic?”

Newt caught his breath, and his bemusement began to thaw.

“No. Tell me why you healed me, earlier, why you think we are tethered still,” he said, tone mild, head tilted. Grindelwald’s gaze was piercing in its intensity. Newt’s eyes slid to his shoulder.

“I am trying to guide you toward the winning side.”

“I find that unlikely, Mr. Grindelwald,” Newt said to Gellert’s shoulder.

Grindelwald dropped the exaggerated intonations of sincerity. “Lie to me, Newton, but don’t lie to yourself,” he said quietly. That appraising gaze was narrow and fond. “Your aura is not especially powerful, true, but it is the brightest I have encountered. It is the shade and sun, spring leaves unfurling to heady summer fullness, the snowdrop and the awakening of every useless, beautiful creature in the snowmelt.” 

Newt flinched. Grindelwald spoke in a low, solemn voice. There was no honeyed undertone, though the flattery felt wrong to Newt. 

“Compelling as only truth can be.”

“Since when do you value truth? You’ve deceived me at every turn,” Newt whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t pretend to admire me. Don’t lie. You tortured me, humiliated me, threatened those I love. What could you possibly gain by your false flattery?”

“You underestimate yourself, Newton,” Grindelwald said, tone wistful. “Do not undervalue yourself to me. I told you before: I see you _endlessly_. I am not lying to you, now. You were drawn to me, and I to you, because I have a claim over you.”

“What claim could you possibly have-?” Newt trailed off, blinking. 

Gellert’s eyes lingered on his curved lashes, dark at the root and fading into auburn at the lower corners of Newt’s eyes. The emotion welling in green-blue eyes was too much like fear. Grindelwald frowned. Newton was more interesting without fear haunting his features. Gellert had perhaps miscalculated, but the situation might be salvaged. 

“The vow,” Newt whispered almost soundlessly.

“The third favor,” Grindelwald agreed, catching a tear that had slipped from Newt’s eye. He brought his finger to his mouth, eyes fixed on Newt’s face.

“What happened that night you stole from me?” Newt said quietly, hesitantly. His breathing was unsteady again.

“I thought it might have counted as a favor,” Grindelwald looked almost regretful, “But it appears the old magic disagreed. Apparently, favors must be given, not taken. I was not certain of this when I deemed our vow complete.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Newt said, his mouth suddenly very dry.

“No,” Gellert gave a fleeting, thin smile. The ease of his manner had evaporated. His shoulders were tense. “I have not. If you ask it of me, I will show you.”

He stepped back and brought his wand up to his head, but Newt surprised both of them when he shouted.

“No!”

Newt’s exclamation echoed down the tunnel and Grindelwald raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips as though he were faced with a disobedient child. 

“Stay away from me,” Newt managed, reaching to grip his disillusioned case.

“You will fulfill the third favor,” Gellert said softly, still frowning. 

“You’ve told me our business was concluded. You helped me wake Percival. Our vow was fulfill-”

“Listen well,” Grindelwald interrupted, speaking over Newt’s denial. His voice was cold and distant, like it had been in New York when he had reminded Newt of Percival. “In three days, at midnight, you will bring Dumbledore to the graveyard in Godric’s Hollow. You know which stone I mean.”

“I will do no such thing,” Newt shot back, lips thinning. 

Gellert’s eyes flashed, his wandless hand darting forward to grip Newt suddenly by the collar.

“You will do as I say, or die,” he whispered into Newt’s face. His breath smelled of cigarettes. “And I have use for you, yet.”

Grindelwald’s mismatched eyes were fixed darkly on Newt’s, and then flicked down in disgust. Newt pushed the wizard away, feeling suffocated by the glare and the proximity. Grindelwald stepped back with the force of the shove, but his eyes glittered strangely.

But Newt was no longer dazed from the magical auras or drugged by potions, and he did not care for Grindelwald’s shifts of mood.

“No. You don’t get to use people however you please. And I won’t betray Professor Dumbledore. Whatever you have planned, change your plans. Retire to the Black Forest, maybe.”

Newt swallowed. His voice was more hoarse than he had intended, but the words had come out steady. 

“Do you value your life so little, to throw it away on principle?” Grindelwald said slowly, eyes following the movement of Newt’s throat. That strange disgust was still present in his face. “Who do you imagine would take care of your beasts, if you are dead? Think on it, Newton. But do not ponder overlong. You have three days.”

“What do you need with Professor Dumbledore? Can’t you arrange your own rendezvous?” Newt said desperately. 

Grindelwald leveled an intent gaze at Newt. And that’s when Newt saw a shadow of the aura around him again, shifting and growing. A white cloud hovered over Grindelwald, condensing around his crystalline-light eye and his forehead, and Grindelwald grew visibly paler than his usual pallor. He looked almost nervous and then he disapparated. 

Newt licked his dry lips and waited for his pulse to steady. He could not quite decipher the other wizard’s expression toward the end of their encounter.

“Merlin, Pickett, why can’t I save Acromantulas without everyone making a to-do about it?” he breathed, picking up the case and heading through the tunnel. “We’re on a bit of a schedule now, aren’t we?”


	5. the Midnight Burglar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, all. I'm sorry this is taking so long, updating. can't promise it will get better, unfortunately, but I do intend to keep churning it out. Some warnings for this and future chapters -- there's mention of **Major Character Death** , but the mention is _unreliable_ so you'll have to wait a bit on that. There will be more MCD to come, too, but I can promise you a happy-ish ending after all that. Because magic ;)
> 
> thanks for the feedback, always thirsty for more, & sorry for the errors, not proofing this cos a bit sick and naps are the schedule right now <3 
> 
> be well!

Ch5. the Midnight Burglar

Numbness blossomed out from his chest, and the hand gripping the suitcase handle grew cold as Newt navigated the tunnels beneath the dam. He felt heavy. His fingers and his toes tingled. The pulsing of the flowing magic beat in his ears. Whatever Grindelwald had done to visualize the magical currents had left Newt with a heightened attunement to residual magic, increased the sensitivity Newt had cultivated over years of tracking magical creatures. He could feel the lingering healing magic, its residue cool on his face and ribs.

He spelled a shoulder strap on his suitcase to free his hands and climbed the long ladder, out into the Rumanian countryside. Dusk was falling, purple-tinged clouds moving in from the East and cold descending on the rolling hills around the river.

Newt walked a long time before he remembered himself, cold and dark at the side of a forest. He apparated in several quick, consecutive jumps to the northwest, through Budapest and to the outskirts of Vienna, where he had to take a break. It was fully dark, and he walked along a narrow lane running beside a harvested field to a secluded copse of aspens, where he set up his wards for the night.

If he was very thorough, if he set the anti-apparition wards he had taught himself, if he set alarms sensitive to the faintest of magical signatures, Newt did not account for his reasons. He cast until his arm was tired and his magic depleted, and then he climbed into his case and tired his body out as much as he had strained his magic, feeding all the occupants of his portable reserve. When he collapsed into the cot in his shed, bone-weary, he expected to fall asleep.

His mind was uncooperative, however. Grindelwald’s strange disgust dogged Newt’s closed eyelids. The wizard’s wand hovered before his face whenever he closed his eyes, and the cool, tingling-peppermint feel of healing magic returned to puzzle Newt when sleep approached. Why had Grindelwald healed him? His injuries had not been life-threatening. They could just as easily have had their conversation with an injured Newt. More easily, since an injured Newt might have been less resistant to Grindelwald’s favor and command. Besides, Newt strongly suspected the Iron Guard to be in league with Grindelwald, so why…?

He replayed their conversation in his head. The night wore away to dawn, and Newt felt no closer to a course of action he could live with. He could hand over Professor Dumbledore, but how could he live with himself after betraying his favorite teacher? Or he could refuse to betray Dumbledore, and the vow would kill him for it anyway. When Newt drifted off into a fitful slumber, it was with despair that he had wasted precious time.

He awoke two hours later, to a dull headache and a sharp clarity of what he had to do. He scrambled up and summoned his quill and a scroll of parchment, knocked over Pickett in his haste for ink, and didn’t even apologize as he began to scrawl away. Pickett expressed his distaste by blowing a loud raspberry, and, when Newt did not tear himself away from composing his letter, Pickett climbed onto his shoulder and blew another raspberry into his ear.

Newt startled, made an ink blot on his letter, and scolded the Bowtruckle. Pickett had never been so treated since his rescue! He curled up in Newt’s pocket and chattered indignantly and began picking a hole in the fabric.

* * *

“I’ve never really whisked without a wand,” Queenie laughed, splashing bits of foamy egg white and sugar out of the bowl. “Oh, don’t worry honey, I’ll just vanish that!”

When the door opened and Leta and Tina walked in, they found Queenie with a white-tipped nose and Jacob with flour down his front.

“Teenie! _Scourgiy!_ ” said Queenie, waving the whisk at Jacob and splattering him with half-beaten egg white. “We’ve been wait-…Oh, oh! What is it?”

Queenie’s face fell and she glanced between Leta and Tina with furrowed brow.

Tina’s shoulders were stiff, her face whiter than normal. She opened her mouth to respond, thought better of it, and release a long breath.

Leta, who always had an air of fragility, carried a tight fury in her gait and her eyes, although her eyelids were faintly swollen.

“Why don’t you ladies come in, and I can make some of that cocoa you and Queenie are always makin’ us, and if you feel like talking you can do that too,” Jacob said, dispelling the silence with affable ease.

“Mercy Lewis, it’s crazy at the British Ministry,” Tina said finally. They sat in the small kitchen, the yellow light of the lamps cozy in the grey morning. Damp air wafted through the open window, carrying the freshness of the previous night’s rain and a whiff of gasoline from the road. Newt’s kitchen table was strewn with unopened letters, some with hastily jotted notes on the envelopes, all of them sprinkled with a layer of tea dust and liberally dotted with circular imprints where a pot or mug had rested. Tina spread her elbows over the envelopes and put her chin on her hands. She exhaled, sending up a small cloud of tea dust.

“They hauled me in for questioning about my, and I quote, wayward husband,” she said. “Newt’s name might have saved my career in the States, but our ‘elopement’ has raised a lot of eyebrows here. I heard ‘em discussing it as I left, wondering how Newt landed such a pretty thing.”

“That’s no way to speak about a person,” said Jacob, frowning and casting an indignant gaze over Tina. “Sorry, sorry, go on,” he cleared his throat, still frowning.

“There was a break in,” Tina began. Jacob gathered the detritus of letters into a pile to free up the table as Queenie bustled with the milk, cream and chocolate. “Theseus Scamander caught someone trying to steal some artifact last night, deep in the Ministry. It was lucky he’s such a workaholic, because the infiltrator snuck in after hours and the alarms almost missed him. No one’s saying how, or what it is he was after. Spielman and Theseus prodded me with questions for ages, but I think I learned more from them than they did from me.”

“Theseus said he dueled the intruder, he was covered in blood… He’s not sure if it was your American friend,” said Leta, pursing her lips. “He said it might have been someone disguised as him. There’s going to be an inquiry.”

“They’ve still investigating so none of this is official,” Tina explained. “No one really understands what happened.”

“Slow down,” said Jacob, frowning. “So Newt’s brother was injured fighting off a burglar? A spy?”

“It wasn’t his blood,” said Leta, biting her lip. “Thank Merlin, Theseus was fine. No, he and Travers hit the intruder at the same time.”

“They’re saying it was Graves,” Tina said, gazing at Queenie with wide, dark eyes. “I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

“They’re saying Theseus caught Graves breaking into some classified secure area,” said Leta slowly. “Theseus asked me not to spread it around, but…they’re saying Theseus killed Graves while trying to apprehend him. Theseus said he isn’t sure about anything, that he thinks the intruder was disguised because he didn’t set off the primary wards.”

“Percival’s dead?” said Jacob, blinking. “No, that can’t be right. Percival’s such a strong fellow! And Newt’s brother wouldn’t kill Newt’s sweetheart, would he?”

“Did they cast Revelio on the body?” said Queenie, levitating mugs of cocoa to Tina and Leta. She was frowning deeply.

Tina nodded her thanks and took the mug into both hands, lowered her head for a sip. She looked up, chocolate on the corners of her mouth.

“That’s what’s so strange,” she said, frowning. “They didn’t recover a body. Said Theseus and Travers had all but decapitated him when he fled. They caught a glimpse of an accomplice. And…there was a creature.”

“He couldn’t have got far, with all the blood he lost,” Leta agreed, her face grim, her voice faint. “There was so much of it on Theseus. At first I thought…”

“Theseus said he thought he caught a glimpse of him, the wizard who helped Mr. Graves escape. Said he thought for a moment it might have been Newt. He kept that bit off the record,” Tina continued. “Whispered it to me when Spielman stepped out. But if Newt did save Mr. Graves, then I’m sure he managed to heal him. Newt wouldn’t let Percival die. If it was Newt… But if it wasn’t Graves, it could have been a trap.”

“But Travers saw him too,” said Leta. “I heard him storming down the hallway, shouting at Theseus.”

“Is Travers another Auror?” said Queenie, eyebrows rising in confusion. “Teenie, you can’t worry until you know the facts.”

“Travers is part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Leta said suddenly. “Blood runs thick, here, more so than in America, I hear. He was slated to be an Auror from his acceptance at Hogwarts. He vies with Theseus for control of the DMLE.”

“He did look very hostile,” Tina nodded, cracking a crooked smile. “Uptight bastard.”

“What’s worse is that Newt made a personal enemy of Travers, at which point the professional rivalry between Travers and Theseus turned venomous,” Leta sighed. “You see, Travers is tight with Grimmson, our consulting beast hunter. They’ve had it in for Newt since he outsmarted them about a law concerning what differentiates beings and beasts, saved a herd of centaurs and a forest that Grimmson wanted to burn down to smoke out a werewolf. They thought it was just a technicality, that he wanted to show them up to get a promotion. That was back when Newt had that desk job in the DRCMC. Travers never forgave that.”

“Newt’s got an alibi, though,” said Jacob. “You told us he went up to Wales.”

“He does,” said Tina, taking a napkin from Queenie to wipe away the chocolate. “He did. Which is why it’s so odd. But I’m sure Newt would come to help if Mr. Graves was in danger. I just can’t imagine Percival breaking into the Ministry, or Theseus cursing him,” Tina trailed off, waving her hands helplessly. Her eyes fell to the dried chamomile in an old jam jar. “I don’t know what’s what. All I know is I didn’t sleep all night, and my head is killing me.”

“They have no reason to detain Newt, then,” said Queenie, “if he’s got an alibi.”

“If Newt gives them his alibi, he’s going to be detained for violating his travel ban anyway,” Tina sighed, setting down the empty mug of cocoa. “I really hope Theseus can come up with something. I don’t even want to contemplate that he hurt or killed Percival…”

“The Ministry will be the least of Newt’s problems if Percival’s arrested, or worse,” said Jacob quietly.

“So he was the American auror Newt fell for,” said Leta, looking at Tina. “But then, what political advantage does it grant you to have married Newt? His family can’t be well known across the pond. Was it the success of his book?”

“That’s a rude thing to think, let alone say!” Queenie snapped, and Leta smiled a bitter smile at her. Sensing the tension, Jacob rose and took to fiddling around with the dough proving near the stove.

“No, I love Newt but not in the manner you’re assuming,” Tina shook her head tiredly. “He offered to marry me because my Jewish name has been impeding my career, and because Newt’s kind and generous.”

Leta sighed, and nodded at Tina.

“Always the Hufflepuff,” she said wistfully. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not my place to look out for him anymore.”

“You meant well,” Queenie conceded, looking between the other witches. “Teenie, do you think you could bring me into the Ministry?”

“Theseus is a decent Occlumens,” Tina said, “but I have no idea about the rest of them. I think it’s safer to stay away from the Ministry entirely right now. I’m just concerned for Percival, I wish he had some way to get in touch…”

“The paper,” said Jacob, who had been busy filling kolaches with jam as they spoke. Queenie looked up, spotted the raw pastries and smiled before waving her wand to bake them instantly. The buns puffed up, layers of butter expanding and flaking crisp, golden and fragrant. Jacob grinned at her and set the tray on the table, where everyone helped themselves. Leta’s reserve melted when she tasted the apricot jam, and she eyed Jacob appreciatively over the bun.

Tina waved her wand set coffee brewing in Newt’s silver coffee pot, which he called a dallah. The coffee here always tasted faintly of cardamom, and Percival would brew it strong and bitter. Tina frowned.

“The paper?” said Jacob, again.

“The scandal broke in the early hours of the morning, and who knows what kind of attention it’s going to bring. We have to find out what happened soon,” said Tina. “Theseus couldn’t tell us much, he was under the nose of all those Ministry officials.”

“We need to get him out of there, somewhere where they aren’t watching him,” Leta said thoughtfully.

“No, I mean, is this the paper in the window? What’s it doing there?” said Jacob, moving to dislodge a bundle from the half-open window, where an owl had dropped it. The rolled-up newspaper sprung open at his touch. “Moving photographs!” Jacob said, and then, “That’s not good.”

A black and white photograph of Percival peered from the cover of the Daily Prophet, with the bold words “wanted for questioning regarding matters of Ministry and national security” over the image. Percival stared ahead with grim confidence, his dark eyes retaining their piercing quality in ink.

“Oh, dear,” said Queenie. The four bent down to read the article.

 

_Ministry Break-in: missing midnight burglar injured, presumed dead_

_An audacious attempt to steal a powerful artifact from the depths of the Ministry for Magic was halted in the early hours of the morning. The Ministry suspects the criminal to be none other than disgraced American Auror Percival Graves. Fortunately, Director of Magical Law Enforcement Theseus Scamander was present at the intrusion. Scamander detected the unauthorized presence and moved swiftly to apprehend the criminal. The youngest ever DMLE and war hero Scamander proved his skill in a vicious duel, during which the intruder was lethally injured and fled the scene. It is suspected that he had outside assistance in infiltrating the Ministry and in his narrow escape from Aurors Scamander and Torquil Travers._

_“I cannot believe Graves would break into the Ministry,” a shaken Auror Scamander is reported to have said. “No, I am not convinced he is spying for the Americans or for Grindelwald. Please put that Dictaquill away and get out of my department! This is an ongoing investigation and as such, we have no further comments!”_

_Auror Scamander then retreated to the interrogation chamber, where Scamander’s sister-in-law, Porpentina Esther Scamander, nee Goldstein, was waiting for him. Mrs. Scamander, recently married to Auror Scamander’s younger brother, is an Auror employed by the MACUSA. Having worked with Graves when he was DMLE between 1923-1926, Mrs. Scamander was likely summoned to report on the downward trajectory of Graves’s career. Readers may recall that Graves was held captive by dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald for months as Grindelwald infiltrated the Magical Congress of the United States of America._

_When she emerged and was asked for comment, Mrs. Scamander gave a heated non-answer: “I don’t know what happened. Wait for the official investigation, will you?”_

_MACUSA’s Director Redford Grimsditch, Graves’s replacement, was more forthcoming by Floo. “We suspected that Graves had lost his mind after his capture by the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald. This suggests a darker alternative—that Graves was not just complicit in Grindelwald’s crimes but that he became a willing collaborator. We will of course cooperate with the British Ministry’s investigation, but allow me to assure your readers that this was no sanctioned act of espionage. I suspect this wretched crime was a twisted attempt to impress Grindelwald by a corrupted and ruined mind. I am personally grateful to Auror Scamander for neutralizing this threat to the national security of the United States and England alike. We will assign an Auror to liaise with your investigation and keep us appraised. We look forward to maintaining the special relationship between our the magical communities of our two great nations.”_

_Auror Travers, who entered the scene just as the lethally injured intruder fled, confirms that another wizard helped the suspect escape. Though he only saw the silhouette of a wizard through rapid spellfire, Travers said he had his suspicions about his identity._

_“I caught a glimpse of another wizard assisting the intruder, and a shadow that looked like a Bat-Bogey Hex,” Travers said, as Auror Scamander glared at reporters from behind his desk. “We are working to ascertain how Graves-excuse me, how the intruder and his accomplice managed to apparate and disapparate in a heavily warded Department. Rest assured that the intruder is dead, and his body will be found. We will hunt down his accomplice and send him to Azkaban after a speedy trial. We do not tolerate lawbreakers, especially not in the heart of the Ministry. Now, good day.”_

_The Ministry has issued no further official statement at time of publication. Readers are encouraged to report any sightings of Graves to the Ministry and to the office of_ the Daily Prophet _in London._

 

“Well of course they talk to that cracker,” Queenie rolled her eyes. “Oh Teenie, I can feel your headache from here. Grab a few hours of sleep while we brainstorm, would you? We’re going to need you in top form. You’re our liaison.”

Tina frowned but succumbed, with more prodding, to the idea of rest, and made a sullen retreat upstairs to one of Newt’s guest rooms.

With Tina passed out in the guest bedroom and Jacob ducked out for groceries, Queenie and Leta remained at the table as the light from the window shifted over the black and white photograph of Percival in the paper.

“You intimidated me, back in Paris,” Leta said, a wry smile playing on her lips. “Not many have ever managed to do that. The way you stormed up to my table and confronted me about Newt.”

“I’m sorry about that now,” Queenie’s grin was wide with embarrassment. “I know I wasn’t getting a full read off of you, and I was going off partial knowledge. Teenie says I leap before I look, sometimes.”

“You were right, I think,” Leta said pensively. “I was thinking about myself and what I owed Dumbledore. Not about Newt.”

“No, you were right,” Queenie said suddenly. “Newt can handle himself. I mean, you were real uppity about it,” Queenie raised her brows, nostrils flaring, “but I shouldn’t have nosed into your business or your thoughts.”

“It’s not the first time he’s used my family’s connections to gain access to Newt, but… It always felt like he knew,” Leta’s voice grew hushed, “Like he suspected the worst of me, just as he sees the best in Newt. I always promised myself to refuse him. But somehow I always end up doing just what he wants me to.”

“He’s using your guilt,” Queenie said softly. “You shouldn’t let anyone use you like that.”

Leta shot a rueful glance at Queenie and quirked a subdued smile.

“That’s pretty much what Theseus says, too,” she said, “Though he doesn’t think ill of Dumbledore. I don’t think he’d believe me if I told him.”

“Pardon me asking, but how long have you two been seeing each other?” said Queenie.

Leta rose, and at first Queenie thought she was going to leave in a huff, insulted at Queenie’s prying. But Leta only gestured Queenie to the couch in the living room. She spelled away the loose fur and feathers before she settled on what turned out to be a navy throw over a beige couch. She patted the cushions beside her and Queenie obliged.

“It’s been nearly a year,” Leta said quietly, “But I thought Theseus had told Newt. And I suppose he thought I had told him, so Newt didn’t find out until early spring. We didn’t mean to keep it secret, exactly. My family is, you must be aware, it’s considered to be quite dark. I don’t know how it is in America, but here it’s expected that old blood marries into old blood. It amounts to incest,” Leta shrugged, her smile brittle, her eyes dim.

“Not too different from the colonies,” Queenie agreed, “We aren’t even allowed to marry the nomaj, what with Rappaport’s Law.”

“The Scamander family’s old but it’s not exactly considered pure blood,” Leta went on. “Theseus is a war hero, and he’s ambitious, a good Director—that certainly helps. But no amount of social climbing will make my family respect him. So we said the hell with them.”

“Oh, did you elope?” said Queenie, looking up brightly.

“Not exactly,” Leta’s lips curled down. “We did invite them. We just aren’t counting on them showing up. Considering our venue’s the Scamander Estate up in Yorkshire.”

She broke off, met Queenie’s gaze, and giggled.

“That’s barbaric, though, not letting you marry your Muggle,” said Leta, after a pause. “He’s clearly a keeper, those pastries alone…”

“I wanted to marry him here. It’s why I insisted we do a tour of Europe, and he show me the places he served, the baking that inspired him… but we’re at the end of it now, and Jacob still won’t agree to it,” Queenie gazed despairingly down at her sensible heels. One of the gold buckles was missing and she frowned.

“He’s afraid you’ll be caught and prosecuted in America,” Leta hazarded, and Queenie nodded, gaze still hovering on her feet. “Don’t you have any loopholes? Surely your sister would know?”

“Tina’s been conflicted,” Queenie admitted. “She wants to help, but it’s like Theseus and Newt in some ways. I understand Newt’s frustration. But Newt’s married Tina. You’re marrying Theseus. Newt doesn’t even love Tina like that!”

Leta reached out to take Queenie’s hand. She sensed that what Queenie needed was an ear, not an earful.

“Why?” Queenie went on, raising moist eyes to Leta’s. “Why is it that Tina gets to marry when she doesn’t even love him, she doesn’t want to start a family, she has her career, and all I have-” Queenie hiccupped.

Leta’s frown was more eloquent than anything she could have said in commiseration. She was about to lean in for a tentative hug when the key turned in the door and Jacob shouldered his way in with a gust of humid summer air and two paper bags of groceries.

“Oh,” he said dumbly, seeing that Leta and Queenie were holding hands and communing tearfully. Before he could take another step, Queenie had sprung to her feet and fled upstairs, pink sleeve obscuring her eyes.

Jacob looked to Leta and blinked.

“Thank you for the pastries, Mr. Kowalski,” said Leta, rising and brushing off her dress. “They were excellent. I think I should be going now.”

“Right, it was good to meet you, Miss Lestrange,” Jacob nodded, confusion still clouding his face. His gaze darted between Leta and the stairs Queenie had just run up. “Call me Jacob.”

“Please, call me Leta,” said Leta graciously, taking up her leather satchel and her hat. She coughed lightly, and Jacob moved from where he was obstructing the door. He had forgot he was holding the groceries, and tomatoes and apples toppled out of one of the bags.

“Here,” said Leta, withdrawing her wand from a hidden pocket and waving the fruit and vegetables back into place. She met Jacob’s apologetic expression, and her face softened. “You should talk to her, when she’s calmed down a bit,” Leta said, closing the door gently.

Jacob stared at the door for several moments, blinked, and abandoned the groceries on the floor. The same bag tipped over, apples rolling past the couch. A baby Niffler clutched a shiny gold buckle, its eyes glinting from beneath the couch.


	6. the Welsh Reserve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I was very much stuck, but I'm getting unstuck, and I promise to do my best to give you more consistent updates. This might mean shorter chapters, but that seems to be my rhythm right now. Thank you everyone who comments/leaves kudos/reads, you are much appreciated <3
> 
> illustrations coming up in about two chapters, now :)) take care, all.

Ch6. the Welsh Reserve

The gently rolling hills, yellowing green beneath the summer sun, reminded Credence of Ireland. They had been in the winter, when the hills were barren and covered with snow, swept smooth by a blustery wind that misted their eyes with fine, powdered ice. The colors were different, but the bones of the land beneath the snow and grass were the same. 

Almost two years ago, Newt and Credence had boarded a steamship for Liverpool from New York. Their travels had soothed Credence’s magic and his psyche. He still felt the roiling rage and sorrow, the distress at his inability to protect himself or others, but these feelings were mostly confined to his dreams and memories. When they surfaced, milder than before, to cloud his vision and tug at his fingertips and his toes, he resisted. An ever-present temptation to dissolve into numbness and desperation. It passed with memories of Newt holding him, so unlike the way the imposter Graves had done, tentatively at first, all careful, calloused hands and the smell of earth and herbs and wet fur. There was nothing flattering, nothing false in Newt’s presence.

It frustrated Credence, that Newt had provided such comfort after an ordeal, and that the past six months, when Newt had clearly needed it, Credence had been unable to reciprocate. The magizoologist was evasive, and Credence had only ever comforted his younger sisters, who were easier to outwit. He was more likely to lash out than to comfort, anyway, he reflected.

Credence gazed wearily out across the brilliant sway of half-crumpled grass and deplored his own feelings of hurt and anger at Newt for pushing him away. A sheep strayed away from its flock and considered a patch of brown grass. Credence watched it through his collapsible spyglass and frowned.

Even now, Newt had hidden him in the middle of nowhere and set off to chase a lead without him! Credence could have helped. He watched the sheep start at a figure of a woman drawing nearer across the field, cutting a swathe through the tall grass which closed up again behind her until she was out in the sheep-crumpled portion of the field. When she was too close for the spyglass to focus, Credence turned it to the sky. A dark bird flew overhead, casting a fleeting shadow over the fields and hills.

“You shouldn’t be wandering out here,” said Bunty’s voice from nearby. Credence, who was perched along a ridge of rock, sketchbook and charcoal abandoned beside him, lowered the spyglass and raised a hand in greeting. Bunty was crunching across the tallest of the grass next to the ridge now, parting it like water, her red hair and army overcoat bright amid the faded yellows and browns.

“I’m not wandering,” Credence said, blinking tiredly up at her. Bunty put her hands on her waist and raised her eyebrows.

“You know we’re supposed to stay within the warded walls of the Reserve. How many times, Credence?”

Credence’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I know you find it restricting, and I’m sorry, but it’s for our safety, Cree,” Bunty huffed. 

It was a line she had given him before, a line that had gone unheeded. She straightened out her skirt and perched onto a convenient flat stone beside Credence, glancing down at his sketchbook. There was a black blob there, thick streaks of charcoal smudged to an aurora of grey around it.

“Self-portrait,” said Credence, tilting his head at Bunty. 

Bunty met his gaze evenly.

“Could do with more practice,” she said. “To really convey the gloom you’re exuding right now.”

“There’s nothing to do here,” Credence said, after a pause. Bunty took a blade of grass and held it between her thumb and forefinger, brought it to her lips, and blew a shrill note, like a whistle.

“Nothing! It’s like Newt wanted us out of the way, the way he rushed off. He’s never going to notice you, you know.”

Bunty stopped her grass-whistling and looked at Credence, who looked away first.

“I’m sure Newt has his reasons,” Bunty said, after a sigh. “You brought your books. I know you miss our London life, but you could give these people a chance. This is temporary, and it’s an opportunity to explore.”

“I don’t understand their accent,” Credence muttered, frowning into his lap. “And there’s not much to explore when they put up safety fences everywhere. I don’t like being shoved aside and put on the shelf.”

“No one does,” Bunty agreed. 

“It’s not my fault the American Aurors tried to kill me,” Credence went on. He seemed to be on a well-trodden course of thought. “But Newt told me himself, that dark wizard won’t bother me anymore. I don’t understand why I can’t just go back to London and keep working toward my exams. Newt and Tina didn’t cosset me like this. The Reserve guard won’t even let me near a Kelpie! 

“They are very focused on safety measures,” Bunty assented, “but not everyone has a natural touch with beasts, and drowning’s a real issue with Kelpies.”

“And biting,” said Credence sourly.

He examined the grass stains on his sketchbook. He had been declining Latin verbs in it, writing out the incantations he remembered for basic charms, spells and jinxes. There were a few half-decent sketches of fire-snails and Kelpies, but most of the white space was taken up by small, spidery writing. 

“I think the most interesting things out here are the birds,” Credence admitted, flipping through his sketchbook to show Bunty a rough outline that somehow conveyed a majesty of motion and wingspan. “See the forked tail? I’m pretty sure it’s a red kite. There was an osprey over the camp the other day, too, but it was much too far to identify properly.”

Bunty’s eyebrows rose. “Some of these are quite good,” she said, following the lines of the drawing with attentive grey eyes. 

“Most people stare up at birds and long to fly,” Credence smiled bitterly. “But I think what we really see is freedom, fierce and unforgiving.”

“You come of age soon,” Bunty said, after a pause. “Have you given any thought as to what you will do with your own newfound freedom?”

Credence glanced up at Bunty and shrugged. 

“Once I finish my studies and take my exams, I want to try living in a wizarding settlement. Somewhere that magic isn’t a big deal, where it’s not hidden or shunned the way it is in New York.”

“There’s quite a few of those in Britain,” Bunty said brightly, “You wouldn’t have to go very far. That’s a lovely idea, Credence.”

She nodded to herself, looking at the horizon. Distant, whitish clouds hovered near the horizon of a wide, bright sky. Credence gazed out, too. The midday sun shone over the fields, erasing shadows and casting ridges of black rock into relief. He could make out the Reserve and its gated walls through his spyglass.

“Do you have plans, after you’ve trained with Newt?” Credence said, not looking away from the tiny figures of humans and flashes of white and blue and red at the walls of the Reserve. 

“Work here and there, save up enough to open my own beast clinic, one day,” Bunty shrugged. “I’ve never been terribly ambitious. Hufflepuff through and through,” she smiled. “But with Newt’s book sales up, I don’t doubt that there will be a need for care of magical creatures specialists.”

“What house would I have been in?” Credence wondered. He continued to watch what he assumed were warding spells flickering in the distance.

“You’d have to ask the hat,” Bunty said, “The Sorting Hat, I mean. But I would guess Gryffindor or Slytherin. You have that look about you, of a determined wizard. Of course, you’d have gone to that American school of yours, and I don’t know about the houses there.”

“Tina was a Thunderbird, but Mr. Graves was in house Wampus. Queenie told me about Pukwudgie, she was in it. Then there’s Horned Serpent, I think, which is sort of like Ravenclaw?” Credence ticked off four fingers, looking away from his spyglass and closing his eyes to assist his memory.

“They’re named after magical beasts?” Bunty smiled around the stalk of grass she had been whistling with. “That’s surprising, considering their laws are so prohibitive nowadays. They must have been more relaxed before all that trial business. Poor sods.”

“Their founder, Isolt, married a Muggle. I read about it back when I wanted to know what I had missed,” Credence admitted. “The Native Americans helped Isolt because she was respectful of them and their traditional magic. Nothing of it survived… but according to Isolt’s writings, local beasts gave away wand cores. It sounded ridiculous to me so I told Newt about it, and he said that beasts can surprise us with their generosity, that he would not rule it out.”

“Beasts can be kinder than humans, sometimes,” Bunty nodded. She let go of the grass stalk and the wind twirled it before it dove into the sea of grass.

“You’d be Pukwudgie, I think,” Credence said seriously. “I might be Wampus, but I’m not sure—I never found out how the sorting works in Ilver-”

He broke off. The spellfire in the distance was gone, but there was a strange charge to the air, and the grass was waving in a crosswind that felt cool on his skin and seemed to cut through the linen of his dark trousers and waistcoat. The thought now occurred to Credence that the flashes of magic he had seen might not have been routine ward enhancement. Bunty perked up.

“There can’t be Dementors here,” she murmured to herself. “Credence, if anything happens to me, you need to run. Hide. Get back to the Reserve and get word to Newt.”

She had taken out her hawthorn wand. Her eyes were wide but her jaw was clenched tightly. Just as she was turning to give Credence further instruction, there was a flash of red light.

Bunty’s wand flicked to intercept the hex on instinct, her left arm flying to cover her head as the force of the spell knocked her to the ground. Credence shouted and scrambled over to the indent in the tall grass where she had fallen. He did not make it.

Before he could reach her, something grabbed Credence by the ankle and dragged him forcefully back to dangle him upside-down. Dizzy from the sudden levitation, Credence blinked to find he was eye-level with a thickset, grizzled man. He had dirty blond hair and cold eyes that glinted with amusement. Credence had never seen him before but there was a triumphant sort of recognition in those small, cool eyes.

“Credence Barebone,” the man sneered, as though the name were an insult. He spoke slowly, his low-pitched voice nearly purring. “So this is where he stashed you. You should have stayed in your cage, beyond the walls and wards.”

“What do you want with me? Who are you?” Credence gasped. The man narrowed his eyes as though offended that Credence had addressed him. The next moment, Credence was twisting in the air to land painfully on his shoulder as the spell released him.

“I am a wizard, and you are a lower being, and that’s all that matters,” said the man, aiming his wand between Credence’s eyes. “Now, I’m going to give you a sporting chance. A thirty second head start for a coltish thing like you. And then I am going to hunt you down and slaughter you like the filthy abomination to magic that you are,” the man smiled, and Credence felt suddenly how deadly serious he was. “Well? Your time starts now.”

Credence scrambled to his feet and dove into the tall grass, feeling for his wand in his pocket just as a curse shot out of the grass and knocked the man back several meters.

He snarled and rounded on Bunty, who had emerged from the grass. Her usually mild grey eyes burned with something fierce.

“On behalf of the Ministry of Magic, stand down or I will make you, madam!” the man shouted. His dirty blond hair was in disarray, his pale, scarred face splotchy.

“Is that the authority who sent you out to attack a child?” Bunty shot back. “He’s my charge, and you need to back off.”

“That is no child, though it pretends to be!” the man narrowed his eyes and cast a gaze out onto the ruffling grass, as though he could see where Credence was hiding. Perhaps he could.

“You must be Grimmson, that cowardly mercenary who’s been knocking on the walls of the Reserve. If you want to interview the Kelpies, I’m sure we can arrange it,” Bunty shouted. She was desperate to distract Grimmson, shooting sparks from her wand that set the dry grass around him alight.

Grimmson waved his wand and a spray of sand flattened the grass in their vicinity. Credence had made it further than the radius of sandy grass. A sheep shook the dirt from itself, bleating, and took off. Grimmson rounded on Bunty.

“I warned you not to interfere with Ministry business,” he said, raising his wand. “If you won’t get out of my way, I will make you. _Stupefy! Depulso! Brachiabindo! Diffindo! Bombarda!_ ”

Bunty held her breath as she countered, and her defensive spells flashed pale blue, barely keeping up with Grimmson’s relentless casting. She remembered to breathe, took in great breaths of air, dizzy, sweating, and doing her utmost to keep the infamous beast hunter at bay.

“I’m going to kill that thing, and the Ministry will convict Scamander for hiding it. I can't wait to haul him in,” Grimmson’s eyes flashed, reflecting the severing charm that clipped Bunty’s side at the mention of Newt. There was a splash of red on the yellowed grass and Bunty collapsed, gasping and grasping at the wound with trembling hands. Crimson crept through her fingers and darkened her army coat.

“My quarrel isn’t with you,” Grimmson said, abandoning the injured witch to scan the expanse of grass with a sharp gaze. He spotted the rustling and apparated to it, as Bunty cried an agonized _No! Credence!_ behind him.

And Credence struck. His spells held desperate and disproportionate power. His stunner missed widely but its shockwave still sent Grimmson staggering into the grass. Credence barely managed to block the retaliatory severing charm and impediment jinx, which Grimmson sent sailing in his direction seconds later.

Groaning, Grimmson rose, looking more menacing than before despite the grass stains on his shirt collar and blades of grass sticking to his dragonhide jacket. 

Credence took several steps back. Defending had never been his forte, despite Newt’s drills and training on the subject. 

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Credence cried, sending red light arcing at Grimmson. But Grimmson did not move or block – he merely brought up an arm that flashed with a strange vambrace, and suddenly the red light redoubled back onto Credence. His wand flew out of his hand and he was knocked back, rolling to a stop on soft grass, his nose inches from jagged rock.

When he looked up, Grimmson was standing over him, but instead of hexing Credence, he was bringing back his foot. The sun gleamed on the steel-toes of the boots he wore. Something in Credence shifted.

Blackness. 

A buzzing, as though all of the bees in Wales had swarmed together. 

He was beating against a bubble-shield and he _hated_ the thing inside it, which had hurt those near him and tried to hurt him. He would not let it hurt him. He would destroy it first. It deserved to die.

The Obscurus pulsated with rage, expanding and condensing its smoky black mass. Grimmson’s mouth was pressed in a thin line with the strain of maintaining his shield. Time seemed to contract and expand with the same rhythm, and then a voice reached Credence through the incessant buzzing that he had become.

“Credence! Credence! He’s not worth it, Cree!”

Bunty, healer of beasts, had staunched the flow of blood from her side and limped over to where Credence was engulfing Grimmson. Her voice rang clear.

“Don’t kill him,” she implored, “You’ve made so much progress. Don’t let this monster undo all of your hard work! Please, Credence. There’s always another way.”

Grimmson was laughing from inside his spherical shield, but the Obscurus had frozen, a mass of suspended black sand. Slowly, uncertainly, the sand coalesced into ribbons which wound back into the figure of Credence. He returned to corporeality shivering and clutching his wand, eyes white and body buzzing with uncontained magic.

Grimmson raised his wand and opened his mouth, but before he could cast a spell, his eyes went blank and flew shut. He pitched forward into the grass, unconscious. 

Bunty stared, wide-eyed, and then rushed to embrace Credence. Tina stepped out from behind Grimmson and summoned thick ropes to tie him.

“Are you alright? We need to move, if you can,” she said quietly to Bunty. 

“I’ll be fine,” Bunty muttered, holding Credence’s cold hand and whispering something to him. His eyes were slowly returning from their eerie, blank whiteness. The milky whiteness dissipated, and beneath it Credence's dark brown eyes were glazed and distant.

“Fine?” Tina said, her voice rising. She added more softly, “You’re covered in blood.”

“I healed it. I was a nurse in the Great War, I know what I’m doing,” Bunty said, patient as ever. “I’ll be weak but I’m in no immediate danger. Credence needs to regain awareness and not slip into shock. This hasn’t happened in months, Tina. He was protecting himself and me.”

“Can I apparate you side-along? We need to leave now.”

“Credence, can you hear me?” Bunty muttered again, and this time, Credence gave a faint nod. Blinking, he cast an empty gaze onto the prostrate Grimmson, and paled.

“Did I? Have I-have I k-?”

He looked ready to dissolve again.

“He’s alive, the scumbag,” muttered Tina, holding out her hand. “I heard him bragging about his mission to Travers in the Ministry, I got here as soon as I could. Come on, we need to go now. Ready?”

Without further warning, without waiting for Credence and Bunty to take her hands, Tina grabbed each of them and disapparated.

They popped into existence just outside the wards of the Reserve. The stone wall, charmed to appear old and covered with lichen, was scorched with spellfire. Tina hauled Bunty and Credence through the gates, which were hanging open and askew. The fences and enclosures Credence had complained about were wrecked, now, and there were no creatures to be seen. 

“Where’s the Floo?” Tina asked, biting her lip as she stared down Bunty. “Think, where did you arrive?”

Bunty swallowed beneath the intent stare of dark eyes.

“What happened here?” muttered Credence, gazing at the destruction. “Was that…that hunter looking for me? Where are the Kelpies?”

“Don’t you worry, Kelpies can handle themselves,” Bunty said, steering Credence toward the largest of the grey stone cottages in the southernmost part of the Reserve. They passed uncharacteristically glassy lakes and ponds. Stalks of wavy kelp lapped at the edges of one of the larger lakes, along with a silvery vambrace, the twin of Grimmson’s. Tina and Bunty rushed Credence past.

“ _Alohamora!_ ” said Tina, waving her wand at the wooden door of the cabin Bunty indicated. They stepped over the stone threshold and into a cozy room with a carpet charmed to exude warmth and paintings of Kelpies that dove in and out of various frames, all landscapes of lochs and marshes. The desk had neat stacks of files on it, and a pair of armchairs stood before the enormous stone fireplace set into the far wall.

“Firewood?” said Bunty, frowning. But Tina shook her head and summoned heatless blue flames to burn in the grate.

She reached into a pocket of her leather jacket and withdrew a vial of green powder.

“Hold out your hand,” she instructed, portioning out the powder into thirds. Her fingers brushed Bunty’s and the coolness of her skin concerned Tina. “You first, Credence. You’ve traveled by Floo, right?”

“Once,” Credence said, looking between the green powder and the blue flames.

“Speak clearly,” said Tina, and whispered something into his ear.

Credence threw the powder and the flames flared green and tall.

“Hog’s Head Pub, Hogsmeade Village,” he said, and hesitated, and stepped into the flames.

Bunty tilted her head.

“Why there?”

“Go on,” said Tina. “Newt told me that school of his was the safest place to hide if things got dangerous. I’m hoping he meant from the Ministry as well.”

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Bunty prepared to toss in her portion of the powder. 

“Tell the barkeep you’re Newt’s friends,” Tina said quickly.

“You’re not going?” 

“I need to go back to London, to the Ministry. Grimmson didn’t see me, so I can keep an eye on their plans from there. I promise I’ll send word when I can. Now go, and get that injury taken care of!”

Bunty cast a final sad glance at the empty Reserve and at the Auror who had saved her and thrust her Floo powder into the flames.

“Hog’s Head, Hogsmeade Village,” she said, and with a _whoosh_ of soot and flame, she was gone.

Tina waved her wand to lock the door behind her and eyed the diminishing blue flames. When they had nearly gone out, she tossed in her portion and said, “Office of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic, London.”

She stepped out into an empty office and brushed the ash from her dark coat, ran her hands through her hair and plucked a dandelion from it. Compared to the cabin, the office was austere, all filing cabinets and dark shelves, a desk with neat stacks of documents and a quill, an empty teacup, an open book on the far corner of the desk. There was a photograph of Leta and a poster of Grindelwald, and both sets of eyes followed Tina as she brushed her coat and hair into order, removing all evidence that she had left the vicinity. She had just vanished the ash from the fireplace when the door opened. 

Theseus walked in and froze, looking up over the large box in his arms labeled _Shards, Cursed. Mirrors and Glass. Handle with Extreme Care_.

“Tina?” he frowned and cleared his throat. “I mean, Mrs. Scamander. What are you doing in here?”

He set the box onto a spare chair in his office and stood in front of it, as though to shield it from Tina’s prying eyes.

“I was getting you flowers,” Tina said, after a long pause. 

“Flowers?” Theseus frowned.

“Here!” Tina thrust the dandelion forward and walked confidently out of the office. She grimaced when her back was turned to Theseus.

“Flowers…” Theseus muttered under his breath, staring at the dandelion before he put it into the book that lay on his desk. The dandelion bookmark fell across the dedication, which read: _For the genuine PG, whose help in compiling this second edition has been invaluable, who sees the value of the overlooked_.


	7. Tycho's Lost Verses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit o' retcon in ch3, my apologies! Needed to figure out my timeline (probably should have done that before posting O.O), which was a tad wonky, so I got rid of Theseus sending Newt a letter, and edited a portion of Dumbledore's letter, nothing too major... 
> 
> Ch8 is complete and has an illustration, and I think we're looking at 12ish chapters, right now, but I've yet to write those last four so. Yeah. It's slow. That just seems to be my pace, and I am sorry not to be faster. But thank you everyone for the comments, kudos, and support. It motivates me and does wonders for my turbulent temperament, heh, which is much appreciated <3

Ch 7. Tycho’s Lost Verses

Percival blinked awake to meet the gaze of a wide, blue eye. Newt’s fringe obscured his right eye as he leant over Percival’s prone body, waving his battered wand in tight, precise circles. Percival tasted menthol, and the potency of the healing magic Newt was working. It drowned out every other sensation, every other sense. He felt suspended in it, bobbing gently on the surface of the bed as though afloat, cocooned in fuzzy, cool relief.

_You’ll exhaust yourself,_ Percival tried to say, but the words came out hoarse and half-choked, a breathy moan rather than speech: “Mm-ahmm-ahumm.”

“Don’t try to speak,” Newt said imperiously. Percival licked his dry lips. Why couldn’t he speak?

“You nearly died,” Newt said, a moment later. He sounded matter-of-fact, but there was a stony edge to his voice that Percival had not heard before. He was weaving a delicate healing spell, his wand movements a deft plaiting of invisible threads.

“You were nearly decapitated, you damn fool,” Newt muttered, completing the spell.

Percival felt weak, drowsy, but very much alive. The aches of healed curses attested to that. He brought a hand to the side of his neck. Newt handed him a mirror, and Percival saw that the strange texture beneath his fingers was a white line running along the side of his neck in a wide crescent. He recalled a sharp pressure, like a whip, and then someone was supporting him as Percival’s world tilted and began to lose color. A dark figure in a long coat, the sound of the blaring claxons, dull as though through a layer of cotton, and darkness.

“Swoop saved me,” he whispered.

“Spare your voice. Your vocal cords were nearly severed, but I repaired them. It will take time for them to heal. The tear in your carotid was the real challenge,” Percival thought he saw a fleeting grin on Newt’s face, but Newt looked somber now, assessing eyes passing over Percival’s throat and face.

Newt vanished the blood from his fingernails and hands, and Percival realized with a start that while he was clean of it, Newt’s coat was still stained grotesquely dark at the sleeves and front. His hands were shaking very faintly—and no wonder, the magical expenditure to save Percival must have been immense. Percival was not sure he could have pulled it off himself, and he knew his magic to be more powerful than Newt’s. Perhaps Newt had picked up some healing tricks on his travels?

Newt went on, “Some blood replenishers would do the trick, but lacking the materials, I improvised. There were multiple lacerations to your back and an irresponsible amount of spell damage to your ribs-”

Newt broke off the emotionless recitation when Percival clasped his hand tightly in his own shaking hand.

“Thank you,” Percival whispered, “Newt, please stop. I know you’re upset, but please don’t do this.”

“Do what?” said Newt, eyes flashing beneath rising brows. Newt’s hands were warmer than Percival’s, and hesitant to squeeze back.

“Pushing, bottling,” Percival hazarded, eyelids half-closed, voice a whispered wreck. “You must be exhausted from healing me and getting here. Wherever here is. Rest. Please.”

He tugged Newt down onto the mattress beside him.

Newt was stiff, at first, but then he sighed heavily, rose, and Percival heard the floor creak as Newt walked away. Feeling despondent, too weak to do anything but drowse, Percival was nearly asleep when Newt settled back onto the bed beside him. Heartened, Percival managed to throw an arm over his partner and nuzzled into those soft waves of hair. The mint still overpowered his senses. He was out within seconds. Newt lay staring at the ceiling, eyes open but somehow absent. His hand curled on the back of Percival’s neck, clean fingernails resting on the scar he had healed.

 

When Percival awoke, the sunlight pierced the embroidered curtains and stung his eyes. He was parched. A pair of eyes was staring thoughtfully, intently at him.

Newt said nothing as he helped Percival sit up and handed him a full glass. Grateful, Percival drank deep. His hands trembled when he tried to hold the cup, and Newt helped him with its weight, tipping it as it lightened.

Percival exhaled, his thirst quenched, and Newt wandlessly set the glass back upon the ornately carved wooden dresser at the other side of the room. Now he was awake and it was light, Percival could see that they were in an old-fashioned room. Newt sat on the edge of the firm bed upon which Percival lay ensconced in a faded red blanket. The room had peeling, florid wallpaper and dark window moulding. The closed wood door shimmered with powerful wards. There was a shabby piano in one corner, an old armchair in front of an empty fireplace, and a writing desk cluttered with scrolls, books, and half-melted candles. Percival’s wand lay there, too, beside a dirty crystal ashtray. Gauzy lace curtains obscured the window. The entire room smelled strongly of tobacco, and a glass decanter glinted amber on the piano in the filtered sunlight.

“Where…?” Percival whispered.

“Safe, for now,” Newt nodded toward the curtains, his voice low to match Percival’s. “We’re in wizarding London, my, ah, acquaintance is not currently using this flat. No one has a reason to suspect our presence.”

Percival blinked.

“We’re hiding form the Ministry under their very nose?”

Newt gave a brief, mirthless smile.

“If you’d prefer to be remanded into the custody of fellow Aurors,” he said, “I’m sure there’s a cell with your name written on it. Next to mine, probably,” he wrinkled his nose and sighed, as if to signal his exasperation with wizarding law and society as a whole.

“How did you manage to get into the Ministry? I thought you hated it,” Percival said in an even, scratchy whisper. His eyebrows were low over his eyes, which were narrowed in contemplation. In his pale, injured state, his dark eyes and brows and hair gleamed and further washed out his features, so that Percival looked sickly with bags beneath his eyes and exhaustion written into the lines of his face.

“Hate it?” mused Newt. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. They pass laws that get nothing done, other than upholding stagnated and rotten principles… The simplest of fools could see…” he paused. “Be that as it may. I have my ways. What were you and Theseus doing in the hall of prophecy, I wonder?”

“Theseus was after an artefact,” Percival whispered. It felt freeing to finally confide in Newt; it felt like a burden was being lifted from his chest. “From within the depths of the department, it was a Revealing Glass of sorts. He mentioned reassuring Leta, something about Tycho Dodonus. I don’t go in for that prophecy nonsense, but Theseus insisted we look for it before we leave. That’s when Travers caught up to us…” Percival frowned, the buoyancy in his chest contradicted by a heavy suspicion in his thoughts, a tightness in his throat.

“To step in when you did, where you did, Newt, did Dougal tell you to interfere?”

“My creatures can sense danger,” Newt said. Percival could not recall an occasion where Newt did not follow such a sentence with specific details, but for once, it seemed Newt would leave the digressions to rest. “I followed you, and it was lucky I found you when I did.”

“You saved my life,” Percival said hoarsely, raising his eyes to Newt.

“You are fetching to look at,” Newt said, as though conceding an argument. He leaned down to meet Percival’s pale, parted lips with his own. The kiss was brusque, quick, but heated. Newt did not linger and Percival felt cold at his absence, colder than before.

“What happened to Theseus? Did he get the artefact?”

“I don’t know,” said Newt, running the pads of his fingers lightly along Percival’s cheek. His gaze met Percival’s, and there was a moment of intense eye contact.

Percival flinched.

Later, he ascribed it to weakness. His magic had been too busy healing him to look outward. Now he was no longer on death’s door, he could feel the wrongness. He held his hand out for his wand, but Newt’s hand shot out and grabbed it before it could fly into Percival’s fingers. There was a strange, slow smile playing on Newt’s lips.

“What have you done to him?” Percival choked out, his voice hoarse and his dark eyes burning.

Newt tilted his head to gaze steadily at him from beneath his fringe, just one blue-green eye visible. “What do you mean?” he said lightly.

“No games,” Percival croaked, and then a coughing fit consumed him. His throat was on fire. Newt waited patiently for it to abate, making no move to help or hinder.

“I will not let you strain your voice or your magic.”

Newt twirled Percival’s wand in his scarred right hand. His left came up to caress his own lips, his neck, his chest. He shot Percival a provocative look, all arrogance and smolder. The hand unbuttoning his shirt dove beneath it to finger the blond hair on his chest, lingering over a scar across his pectorals, idly flicking a nipple. Newt’s face registered the sensation and intrigue lit his features.

“Such an awkward, slender, responsive lover, isn’t he?” Newt’s hand was rising along his sternum now, caressing his throat and jaw, his hairline, his cheeks. His eyes slid closed as his hand knotted in his hair and pulled. Newt mouthed a gasp and Percival, to his shame, felt the effects of the seduction. He felt, too, the strength begin to return to his limbs, felt the numbness abating.

“Always popping his wand in his mouth,” Newt’s voice was low, deliberately sultry in a manner Newt had only ever deployed by accident. “Have you ever had these lovely lips on you? Would you like to? Ah, but screaming would not promote the healing of your vocal cords,” he licked his lips.

“Are you holding him prisoner? I won’t let you-” Percival struggled to rise from the bed. Sweat stood out on his forehead, his neck, his back. His white nightshirt adhered to him like a second skin. Newt frowned.

“Settle down, now,” he said, as though he were speaking to a child, or to an errant Bowtruckle. The empathetic spark in his eyes was not there, however. In its place there burned something colder, harder, like a blaze seen from a great distance. It was almost celestial, and Percival hated how wrong it looked, how it hollowed out his gaze, stealing the kindness from Newt’s face. Percival collapsed back into bed, feigning utter weakness even as he felt his strength returning.

“One might think an Auror would take better notice of his weak spots, even a former Auror,” he mused again, as though enjoying the sound of Newt’s voice. “Wear a gorget, or a charmed collar, perhaps? For my sake if not your own,” he smirked, but the expression soon melted away. “He is not my captive. I have not limited his freedom. His nature would not abide it.”

He rose, went to the desk, took out a Muggle cigarette and used Percival’s wand to light it. Percival took petty satisfaction that the flames sparked out instead of igniting, his wand recalcitrant in the foreign hand of his enemy. Not-Newt took a long drag and then exhaled a plume of smoke in a deep sigh. Half-lidded eyes found Percival’s.

“Yes, Newton made his preferences clear,” he sighed again, pre-empting Percival’s questions. “And so I brought you back to life, nay, cuddled you to life this past night,” he laughed. Newt’s clear, ringing laughter sounded sinister for the first time in Percival’s memory, the laugh lines around Newt’s eyes cruel. “How does it feel to be in my debt, Director Graves? Have you missed my touch? There is something agreeable about your sleeping form, your unwavering affection for our mutual beloved.”

“I’m not,” Percival coughed, “a Director,” he managed.

Grindelwald smiled again, a sly curve of Newt’s lip that took Percival’s breath away.

“You’ll feel the potion take effect soon,” he promised. At Percival’s alarmed look, he said, “Something to get you on your feet, Percy. I can’t play nursemaid all day. There are laws that need breaking,” he gave a very Newt-like shrug of slouched shoulders.

Percival sunk further into his pillows. His eyelids fluttered.

“You should be feeling it quite soon,” Grindelwald repeated, “but before you do…”

He leant forward to meet Percival’s gaze, “The lost verse, the rumors the British Ministry tried to quash… are they true? Is it real?”

Percival tried to shake his head, but this tugged at the newly healed skin of his neck and made him dizzy. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Newt’s cold eyes met his and a foreign mind slid into his memories as though into a pool of water.

The first and second Unspeakable stood before the high shelf in the dim light of dusty, glowing orbs. They stared at the label that read _LVs of TD?_.

The second Unspeakable, the one in brown with a quick gait and a confident manner, strode forth and took the orb from the shelf.

He nearly dropped the small, glowing white orb at the claxon that sounded when he wrapped his fingers around the dusty glass. Fountains of red and violet sparks exploded at the end of every aisle of towering shelves.

“Come on!” the second Unspeakable cried over the hissing and the sirens. They were running, shelves flashing by in showers of sparks and blurs of foggy glass, shouts echoing from the far end of the hall. A wave of magic washed over them as a ward was activated and Theseus found himself running next to Percival, whose coat was tight across the shoulders. “Merlin’s beard! They’ve triggered extra security. Bollocks!”

“Use it,” Percival snarled breathlessly, grabbing the orb from Theseus’ sweaty hand. “You know what you have to do.”

“Be careful,” Theseus whispered, and Graves set off ahead of him.

Not a moment too soon. Travers rounded the corner, wand glowing with a vicious curse.

Percival deflected.

“Hiding behind your Aurors, Scamander?” Percival growled back at Theseus, forcing Travers on the defensive with a string of wordless hexes. “Couldn’t handle a duel, wizard-to-wizard?”

“How did you get down here?” Theseus said harshly, pointing his wand at Percival. “Who let you in?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Percival jeered. One of Travers’s hexes clipped his ribs. Theseus sent a Stunner that was deflected, but then Travers opened a long cut along Percival’s cheekbone. The red light played across Percival’s bloodied face. The claxons wailed.

Theseus looked between Percival and Travers, and mouthed _sorry_ , and raised his wand.

Percival countered the severing charm, but the speed with which Theseus and Travers retaliated overcame him. He would have been decapitated had a shadow not flown out from within his sleeve to deflect a portion of a curse sent his way. The edge of spellfire clipped Percival’s throat, and he fell, taking care to cushion the dusty orb in his left hand, bemused at what had hit him, what had saved him, everything a confused tangle of colors and sounds… curses made contact, a hot, lancing pain, and there was a strange numbness and lack of color as his vision tunneled.

The silhouette of a tall, slouching man in a dark coat blocked the Aurors’s curses and grabbed Percival by the arm. There was the tug of a Portkey, the warm wetness flowing down his front and side, Newt’s blurry face, and finally, unconsciousness.

Newt’s face was staring into Percival’s eyes, back in the room that smelled of tobacco and faintly now of ozone and pears. Both men were breathing heavily.

“It’s here,” Newt said softly, and summoned the glass orb from the folds of Percival’s overcoat, flung carelessly onto the armchair before the fireplace. Percival struggled to catch his breath from the instruction. The memories were fragment but clearer, now, and his strength was returning at a startling rate.

Newt left the unremarkable orb to hover in the air a moment, and then he let it fall to the ground and shatter. The orb dissolved into shapeless, lingering grey-white mist. A disembodied voice floated through the air.

_The Rhenus’ red water,_   
_its color the fulcrum—_   
_of impending slaughter,_   
_the sound of the war drum._

_Blinded by bloodshed,_   
_Sibyl of Vienna,_   
_Faces his reckoning:_   
_a Hollow dilemma._

_With thought quick as silver_   
_the master and slave_   
_Deliver the pilgrim_   
_from Tomb unto Grave._

_First death relented_   
_between the two brothers;_   
_a schism newly mended,_   
_though never recovered._

The smoke faded, the voice grew silent, and only shards of glass and a pensive look on Newt’s face remained of the mysterious prophecy.

“The Rhenus’ red water,” he muttered, gazing ahead. Then he tore to the writing desk where a self-writing quill had been taking dictation, and his eyes ran over the words on the scroll. Strange new frown lines creased Newt’s face as he bit his cheek, ran a hand through a mustache that wasn’t there, ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

“It lacks old Tycho’s signature amphibrachic dimeter,” he murmured. “Still, it could be genuine-”

He never finished his thought. Percival had, with minute hand gestures and great concentration, channeled his wandless magic to levitate the heavy crystal decanter of whiskey above Newt’s head. He let it crash down and Newt’s form crumpled over the desk, amber liquid spilling across the floor.

Sweating, Percival rose and made his slow trek to where Newt’s body lay across the desk. He took his wand from a slack hand and whispered, “ _Revelio!_ ”

The spell took, despite his failing voice and weak magic. Percival’s lip curled in satisfaction and then in distaste as Newt’s hair faded to flaxen blond, his freckles vanishing in pale skin, his coat and trousers becoming just a tad too long and tight on a broader frame. Percival did not look down at the unconscious man, at the line of blood at his temple or the flutter of blond eyelashes.

He took the scroll where the prophecy had been jotted down, summoned his coat, and gathered his magic to send a vivid shower of sparks out the window to hover over the roof of his location. The spellwork drained Percival more than he thought such simple charms ought to. He paused a moment and sat heavily onto the bed. Just a moment. Just to catch his breath.

 

When Percival came to, he lay atop the faded red covers. There was no figure sprawled unconscious over the desk. Neither was the scroll with the prophecy in Percival’s hand, though his wand lay on the pillow. A crystal decanter stood empty on the piano. And what had woken him became clear—there came a loud knocking on the door.

“This is the Ministry! Open up! You are in direct violation of the Statute!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps  
> I'm sorry about the quality of the verse, it seems to be the best I am capable of at present. eh. I mean, Trelawney's done worse so I reckon it'll do :/
> 
> pps that theory that emerged when we got that screenshot of a fierce!Newt from CoG, you know the one? That inspired this chapter. obvs :)


	8. Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! I have more for you, soon, with an illustration. Things are about to pick up the pace! <3
> 
> sorry for mistakes and inconsistencies, and for the sparse updates. And as always, it is an honor to hear from ya :)
> 
> ps. some of the text Queenie reads isn't mine, it's a quotation from St. Augustine repurposed to serve very different ends...

Ch 8. Hogwarts

Queenie’s voice was oddly solemn, her face rapt. Jacob took in the flush high on her cheeks, the play of light across her moving eyes and lips as she read. They were sitting in Newt’s living room and the front windows were flung open in the vain hope of a breeze. The British paper, _The Daily Prophet_ , lay open on the low coffee table atop a half-eaten apple and a small pile of either food or excrement pellets—Jacob was not sure. 

“For in the ruin of our city it was stone and timber which fell to the ground; but in the lives of those Romans we saw the collapse not of material but of moral defences, not of material but of spiritual grandeur,” Queenie looked up from the thin, handwritten book and beamed at Jacob.

“I’m not sure I’m following, honey,” Jacob said slowly. “You want to convert to a different religion?”

The paper headlines proclaimed that Percival Graves was still missing and wanted for questioning, that there had been a mysterious train derailment in Times Square, an incident in the new Kelpie Reserve in Wales (Conservation or Consternation? Kelpie Reserve Abandoned, Curse-marks Testify to Violence). He was relieved there was nothing written about Newt, but at the same time he wondered if his friend had managed to defend the Kelpies, if he had saved the charismatic Mr. Graves, and when he, Jacob, would see Newt next. His house wasn’t as warm without its master. Jacob ripped his gaze away from the moving black and white photographs to give Queenie his attention. 

“Don’t you see? This is what’s wrong with our country, Jacob. Things used to be different, before the Salem witch trials and the Scourers. Besides, suppressing our voices and our powers is harmful to wizards and nomaj alike. If the Statue of Secrecy was torn down, if Rappaport’s Law was repealed, don’t you see what would happen? What could happen?”

Jacob straightened up from his seat on the couch beside Queenie. He did not have the heart to interrupt her, even as he looked between the curly handwriting and Queenie’s flushed face. 

“I though we already decided,” he said, eyebrows climbing his forehead as he skimmed the page thrust toward him. “But what’s this about non-magical folk as the destroyers of civilization?”

“Oh, that’s just rhetoric, they probably mean the war,” Queenie said, shrugging. “I mean, magical people are naturally stronger than non-magical people. Why shouldn’t we get to take care of them? It’s our responsibility, it’s the natural order of things.”

“I’m all for you taking care of me, personally,” Jacob hedged. “But I don’t know if that kind of talk is good for everyone. The way this is written, it’s like wizards are the victims…”

“Well, aren’t we?” Queenie looked impatient now. “They’re not letting us get married. Don’t you want to be with me?”

“Of course I do,” Jacob said at once. “But I’m not going to get you into trouble, I’m not worth it.”

“Don’t you see? Our relationship is worth more to me,” Queenie gazed at Jacob with wide, imploring eyes. “Don’t I get a say? Why is our love wrong?”

“Oh Queenie,” Jacob enveloped Queenie in a hug, his face softening. He opened his eyes and saw the little book titled _For the Greater Good_ , and frowned. “Our love is right, it’s perfect. But we have to think about the consequences.”

Queenie’s eyes shone with tears. 

“Why won’t you marry me while we’re here? It’ll count for something, at least!”

“We could never go back to America if we did that,” Jacob said. “Our lives are there, darlin’. We can’t just throw all that away. Your career as a journalist, my bakery, our friends and family, Tina-”

Queenie interrupted, “Tina just married Newt, even though they’re not in love! It’s not fair, Jacob. How is it fair?”

“It isn’t,” Jacob said quietly. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Queenie, clasping her hand tenderly before letting go. “But if I get to see you without getting ‘bliviated and it’s the best we can do, then I’ll take it. I don’t want to lose you.”

Queenie’s breath hitched as she wiped errant tears away and sniffled. 

“I have to go to,” she said suddenly, decisively.

Jacob watched her sweep around, gathering her handbag, her wand, the thin booklet she was reading and a comb for her hair.

“Do you want me to come along?” Jacob asked, wondering at the shift in her mood. Queenie glanced at him and her face was uncertain. She put the booklet back down, and raised her wand.

 

* * *

 

Credence and Bunty emerged to soot, cobwebs and the scent of stale beer. It was a dark room, an unused fireplace set into the wall, old wood crates stacked haphazardly everywhere.

Bunty muttered some sort of reassurance as she reached for Credence’s stooped form, a silhouette in the dark. “ _Lumos!_ Tina said the Hog’s Head, but I thought that was a pub?”

“You’re hurt,” Credence said, his voice higher than usual, wide eyes glimmering in the wandlight. 

“It’s not life threatening, Credence, I’ve treated much worse in the war,” Bunty said, speaking fast and soft. Her brow gleamed with sweat. 

“ _Alohamora!_ ”

She need not have bothered with the spell, because a moment later, the unlocked door opened of itself.

“Who’s there?” said a gruff voice. And then a man stepped into the room, a black, stubby wand grasped in his hand. He had a short, scruffy auburn beard, wavy brown hair which was going faintly grey at the temples, a receding hairline and an impatient expression. His left hand was tucking a letter into the pocket of a stained waistcoat. 

“Bunty Lovegood, at your service,” Bunty’s voice was strained. “We’ve run into some trouble with the Ministry and our friend Tina Goldstein, or, Tina Scamander, I suppose? She sent us here.”

“Scamander?” the man muttered, frowning. “Speak of the devil.”

He turned around with a heavy sigh and walked back into the pub proper. 

“Come in, then!” he called over his shoulder. 

It was the middle of the afternoon, but the pub was dark and mostly vacant, the windows obscured by grime and dust so that what light did filter through was a bleak, splotchy spill that only exacerbated the gloom. Round tables stood at odd distances from each other, the wood sticky with circles of countless leaky mugs and spills. The wood chairs were dusty, and only a hag and a wizard in a hood sat in opposite corners nursing empty glasses.

“She’s seen better days,” the man admitted, when he saw the expression on Credence’s face. 

Credence’s hand hovered over his wand as he followed Bunty to the bar, where the man waved his wand and a bottle flew over to fill the glass of the hag slouching in the corner. He cast a rueful look at the dirty, near-empty room and turned back to Credence and Bunty.

“You,” he said suddenly. “You’re the Barebone boy, aren’t you?”

“I’m Credence, yes,” Credence said slowly. “How do you know that? Who are you?”

“The owner of this reputable establishment,” the man made an ironic gesture, “Aberforth Dumbledore.”

“You’re related to Dumbledore?” Credence found this hard to believe. Aberforth ignored him.

He turned to offer Bunty a drink, saw her pallor and spelled over a bottle of Firewhiskey. Credence extended a hand toward one of the shot glasses but Aberforth unceremoniously swatted it.

“For the lady,” he said. “Now, you said trouble with the Ministry?”

Bunty gave Aberforth the details of Grimmson’s attack. By the end of her narrative, a frown had etched itself permanently onto his face.

“We are going to have to go up to the castle,” he said, nodding to himself. “No avoiding it, is there. Well. Can you handle the walk, or should I have a carriage sent over?”

Bunty assured Aberforth that the walk would be no trouble, and Aberforth took some pleasure in shooing his customers out of his pub with a levitating and very dusty broomstick, the sort made for sweeping and not for flying, when words produced no effect. The hag and the hooded wizard left, the former swearing. The dusty broomstick sidled across the floor, leaving a trail of cobwebs.

“They’ll be back, the poor sods,” Aberforth sniffed. Credence found it strange that it was still afternoon, that village life went on as usual around them, that the sun had peered out from the clouds. They went out, past a small, grassy paddock, fenced and sharing a wall with the back of the pub. A dozen or so goats stood munching on grass and piles of hay, casting skeptical looks their way with their strange, yellow eyes from beneath ridged, twisted horns. Credence found them unnerving compared to the proportions of mooncalves. The eyes seemed too small, and too cunning. 

Aberforth was reluctant to slow his pace. He walked with slouched shoulders and bowed head, staring at the ground before him. He took a pallid Bunty by the arm as they scaled the incline and approached the school from the east, their steps muffled by the dry ground and then by the creaky timber bridge. Credence was relieved to see the castle again, but Aberforth seemed to be in a hurry to get out of sight of the towers and turret windows. His free hand returned, perhaps without his awareness, to the pocket where he had tucked away a folded letter, tapping it lightly from time to time.

They met no one in the Entrance Hall past the great doors, though these refused to open until Aberforth placed a hand on them to verify his intentions, at which point they creaked and condescended to budge. Aberforth eyed them suspiciously as he walked through, but the doors behaved. He led them up staircases, dodging the moving ones, and past portraits that waved and told them to walk with better posture, they had to set an example in the school.

“School’s not in session,” Credence muttered to a particularly persistent Knight, who wanted to perform feats of strength for them. “I’m not a student, excuse me.”

Credence lost track of their path through the castle. It was a vast and empty place, and he found it unnerving even though he knew that soon the halls would be full of British children. Children learning magic. It rankled, still, that Mary Lou had snapped the wand he found in Modesty’s room. Where were his sisters, now? Could they have been here, in another life? Credence was jerked back into the present to Aberforth’s gruff voice.

“Juniper Spore,” said Aberforth suddenly, pausing before a pair of wooden doors. Credence waited for something to happen, but apparently this was not an incantation. 

“Go in, there,” Aberforth added, when he saw that Bunty and Credence were not budging. “Well, don’t just loiter around. Get in there! I’ve got an errand of my own, and a pub to run. I did my part. The Ministry can’t arrest you if you’re in medical custody. If Madam Spore and Headmaster Black-no, he died, right, Dippet then, they might be bothered to keep you alive. If all else fails, you can always try my brother. But I wouldn’t bet your lives on it.”

Aberforth had turned and begun to walk away, so when he came to the end of his sentence and his intonation took on a bitter note, his face was out of sight and his words near inaudible.

“Pleasant fellow,” said Bunty, when he had rounded a corner. Credence startled her and himself when he choked out a laugh, and Bunty grinned back at him. 

The Hospital Wing was a long room with lots of light, and shelves of thriving herbs. White beds and screens stood at intervals along one wall, and the other was all shelves and countertop, occupied with mortars, pestles, scissors, and a high pile of butterfly wings. Potions were shelved behind glass and wooden doors, and there was a regimented disorder to the place that reminded Credence of Newt’s shack at its cleanest. There was no dust or dirt, but the vivacious plants, the haphazardly stacked books, the scrubbed pewter cauldrons and diagrams of human bodies with moving lights that danced about the throat, sternum and pelvis, the forehead and along the fingers of both hands, all spoke of expertise and learning. Credence watched the lights blend and circulate down the arms and into the palms of the body, which brought up a hand to emit a pulse of light.

Madam Spore was a large, dark-haired witch who showed great care in tending to Bunty and great suspicion toward the watching Credence. 

“Can’t trust schoolboys, especially around the infirm,” she told Bunty after instructing her to gulp down a vial of dark red and musty-smelling blood-replenishing potion. She unceremoniously dumped a purple liquid onto the wound, which began to smoke. Bunty yelped. “There, there, dear. _Vulnera Sanentur. Ferula._ All better. I’ve had them try to lift cough remedies chasing a thrill, the hooligans. I’ll never forget the young Hufflepuff who stole my store of pickled woodlice before I could treat ‘im. Mad bunch, those Slytherins and Gryffindors, but the Ravens and Puffs will be more subtle about stirring up trouble. You were a good girl, never gave me any mischief. Herbert’s got me stocked up, as you see, when I can tear him away from his theatrical ambitions to do his job… And you!” she rounded on Credence, who took a step back. “Sickly look you’ve got. Have you been eating? Drinking water and pumpkin juice? Is it a magical stagnation? You need to exercise your spellwork, young man, as well as your body and mind.” 

Credence mouthed _Pumpkin juice?_ as Madam Spore waved her wand to run a diagnostic on Credence, but Bunty raised a hand and lowered the wand. Madam Spore turned to Bunty with wide eyes. There was a moment of silence, the first since they had set foot in the Hospital Wing.

“Credence has a chronic condition which is being monitored by an expert,” Bunty said, her eyes apologetic. Madam Spore recovered slowly and stowed her wand. “His magic has suffered a little, but he is doing very well. That may be what you picked up on. We appreciate the help, but I think we are all set.”

“Very well,” said Madam Spore, but her voice was not the confident one of moments ago. “I’ll need you to stay put for observation, however. That was a nasty wound, and the potion needs time to work.”

“Would anyone care for a cup of lemon tea? I find it soothes away a world of aches, and a sunny temperament is an excellent healing aid,” said a mild voice. Bunty glanced up to see a handsome, middle-aged man with auburn hair and beard. The blue linen of his suit brought out his eyes, which regarded Bunty with warmth.

“Professor Dumbledore!” said Credence. 

Dumbledore nodded to him, and clapped his hands lightly and a tea set appeared on the bedside table. Madam Spore poured out the tea by hand, and helped herself to a cup of steaming, citrus-wafting tea.

“I did need an afternoon pick-me-up,” she said. “Friends of yours, Albus?”

“Oh yes,” Dumbledore dug around in his trouser pocket, and withdrew a bar of chocolate which he broke into chunks and offered around. “You’ve got to charm it first,” he told Credence secretively, “melts and ruins good trousers, otherwise.” He peered into a basket on a shelf and withdrew a handful of brightly-wrapped candy, which he placed onto the tea tray. 

“Grimmson attacked us at the Reserve,” Credence interrupted. “Bunty saved me. She was amazing, she and Tina knocked him out. He said the Ministry wanted me dead. Do I need to go on the run, now? Will they put me in wizard-jail? What do we do?”

Dumbledore put down his chocolate and sighed. Credence took the Chocolate Frog he was offered and opened it, absent-minded. The chocolate frog jumped, startling him, and landed into his teacup where it melted. Credence was left with a card and a wrapper. 

“Honoria Nutcombe,” he mouthed.

“Lovely name, Honoria, “ said Dumbledore, and sighed. “Politics is a hazardous business of late,” the smile melted from his face. “I do not doubt Bunty’s heroics. She always was clever at Transfiguration and quick on her feet. Wouldn’t have saved so many lives in the war without such persistence—a Hufflepuff through and through. But I wonder if we might have a word in private, Credence? If you are amenable to it, and Bunty agrees?”

Dumbledore eyed Bunty expectantly, and she nodded, blushing slightly.

“Of course, Professor,” Bunty said. Madam Spore had finished most of the tea, and was adding a sprig of green to what appeared to be a glass of water, which turned silvery-blue when she tapped her wand to it. 

Credence followed Dumbledore from the Hospital Wing as Bunty coughed, trying to force down the strangely phosphorescing potion. Madam Spore hovered over her with a thermometer and what sounded like a stream of nonstop, albeit soothing, chatter.

Credence tucked the card into his pocket. He had many questions he wanted to ask Dumbledore: why had Ministry sent Grimmson after him? Where was Newt? Why did Dumbledore’s brother run a dirty pub and seem to hate him? Would Bunty be okay? But what came out of Credence’s mouth was, “Why did she look so offended?” 

Dumbledore looked curiously at him, and took a moment to place what Credence meant. He said, “Ah. Madam Spore’s reaction was typical, Credence. You received your wand quite recently, didn’t you? Have you happened to use another’s wand?”

“Newt let me practice with his, a few times, when he was teaching me,” Credence said, thinking back.

“Hm,” Dumbledore smiled, and turned to look at Credence more fully. “The bond between a wand and a wizard is a mysterious thing, Credence. It is considered to be sacred. It is something of a taboo in our society to touch the wand of another with your bare hands unless the wand is offered freely. To use another’s wand, for training or out of necessity, is on some level to defeat them and subject them, that is, to make them your subject. This is overlooked in the capacity of close familial ties, or, in the case of you and Newt, a mentor and student. But when Bunty moved Madam Spore’s wand with her hand, her protective instincts overrode the unspoken law.”

“Is it punishable? Will they fight?” Credence asked, fingering his own wand with fascination. He had not considered wands to be such fraught artefacts.

“It can be seen as a gesture of intimacy, of trust, or as the most presumptuous of offenses. Duels used to be fought over improper handling of a wand—Wendelin the Weird was reported to nonmagical folk and burned once or twice for this very offence! But she was fine,” Dumbledore assured Credence, who was worrying his lip with his teeth. “Anyway, this speaks of Bunty’s strong feelings toward you. Her loyalty. Madam Spore will forgive and forget. Yes indeed, Credence. There is much in wandlore that is unknown. Why do certain substances make good cores, and how does a wand choose a wizard? These are all areas for study, areas inquiring minds might illumine for us.”

“Are wands sentient?” Credence said, furrowing his brow.

“Not in the way we think of sentience,” Dumbledore said, and paused. “Although perhaps you are not wrong to say so. They have predilections, loyalties, sometimes a will of their own. They do not have thoughts, but we can, through our magic, feel compatibility and receive an impression of the wand’s nature. The witch or wizard, and the Muggle, too, has an innermost essence. Some call this the soul. Others refer to it as the magical core.”

“Even the nomaj?” said Credence. "Wait, the soul? So all that stuff about God punishing witches and wizards, is that real?"

“I am no expert on matters of theology," said Dumbledore, shrugging gracefully. "But as to whether the Muggles and magical folk have souls and magic? I believe the answer is a resounding yes. It may be called something else, but it burns within us all, to some extent. Muggles may not be able to control or harness it, it may be superficially different, but even Muggles have this form of magic. It is neither seen nor heard, but it can sometimes be felt. Muggles, those you call nomaj in America, have what is considered inactive cores—their magic lies dormant, buried deeper in some than in others.”

“Demiguises do, too,” said Credence suddenly. “And it must be how Bowtruckles find wand-quality trees. They all have magic.”

Dumbledore huffed a short laugh.

“Quite right, you have been learning from Newt,” he said. “It may be more correct to extend the courtesy of our discussion to beings and to beasts, though I would hesitate to draw any lines. Mandrakes, for example, would pose a curious case…” Dumbledore trailed off into comfortable silence. 

Credence looked at him, wondering why they were talking of Mandrakes.

“You found me in Paris, and you’re helping us here. Why are you helping me?” Credence asked.

They stood at a window overlooking the grounds, and the figure of a man was walking back across the lawn hurriedly. Credence recognized Aberforth’s cloak. Dumbledore was watching him carefully, blue eyes appraising. Whatever his errand, Aberforth was keen to be gone now that it was over. Dumbledore turned back to Credence and his expression was unreadable.

“Because you need help,” Dumbledore shrugged. “And because you remind me of someone I used to know, a long time ago.”

Credence found that he looked sad for a moment, and then a desperate sort of calm settled onto Dumbledore’s features once more. 

“It is an unfortunate irony that I now have to ask you for your help, Credence,” he said, gazing earnestly into Credence’s eyes. “Not entirely for my own sake. Will you come with me, and help me to face that which I fear the most? I have no right to ask this of you, Credence,” Dumbledore exhaled slowly, averting his gaze. “I am sorry to ask it. But I find that time is short, and my resources scarcer than I like.”

“Will Bunty be safe where she is?” he asked. Dumbledore’s expression softened once more, and he nodded.

“What do you need?” said Credence. His shoulders were hunched, his jaw set. He felt indebted to this man, to this teacher who shared chocolate and secretive smiles and the sort of knowledge Credence did not know existed. He kept his suspicions at bay. Credence could defend himself if necessary. 

“There is a retired member of the Wizengamot, that is the wizard court, who has allowed me to stop by for tea tonight,” Dumbledore began. “Let us start there.”


	9. the Tower of London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so illustrations by the magnificent **[10kiaoi,](http://10kiaoi.tumblr.com/)**  whom I commissioned a few months ago, now. Thank you, 10kiaoi!!
> 
> and I wanted to update, to give you something toothsome this time <3

Ch 9. The Tower of London

Newt flinched awake when the Great Horned owl swooped in through the window, had a tangle with the curtains, and emerged victorious with an envelope in its curved, black beak. He had only arrived from Rumania, had drifted off waiting for a reply from Percival and from Dumbledore. The former seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth, even as his face was plastered over the _Daily Prophet_ alongside Newt’s own. Wanted for questioning. Newt had not intended to fall asleep, but the travels had caught up to him.

Newt took the letter hurriedly, ripping open the envelope. His posture wilted as he registered the familiar, neat cursive and the Ministry stamp. By the time he had read through the letter, his shoulders were approaching his ears and he was mouthing, “Meet us at the Tower of London, dawn tomorrow? Hide until they leave? Tell me where you’ve stashed Graves?” with faint frown lines and incredulity.

“Not the letter I was waiting for,” Newt muttered as he fed his brother’s owl. “But that’s hardly your fault, Cromwell. There. That’s it. Off you go.”

Cromwell’s form flapped away until it vanished in the night sky. He was tempted to ignore his brother’s summons and tear off to search out Percival on his own, but Theseus had last seen Percival. Newt’s face fell as he came to a decision.

He left the case hidden in the basement hospital, leery of its confiscation in the event of his arrest. In the event that Theseus had decided to summon him by letter only to arrest him. But Newt was on a schedule, and dawn was approaching. His eyes fell across a slim booklet on the coffee table.

 

He missed Percival so much that it physically ached. Sitting atop the Tower wall, Newt leaned sideways into the parapet, the weathered stone jagged and cold against his cheek. His left hand curled and uncurled over nothing. An early morning fog enveloped the city, blurring the outlines of buildings and lawns. Newt wrapped his arms around himself, closed his eyes. His head spun a little, up here. He ignored it.

He thought of the old _Daily Prophet_ on his coffee table, that declared Percival quite likely dead, wanted for questioning if alive. He thought of the slim volume of hand-bound, handwritten and honeyed words. _The Greater Good_. How pervasive were these words, that a booklet had made its way into his home? Percival would have thrown it into the fire, but Newt had dropped it to the floor. Dismayed. Hasty. Newt had fled. He hated how predictable he had become, and there was a chill eating away at him… The morning hush was ominous, Percival’s absence gaping.

“Gold, the herald of the morning,” said a low voice from his left, as the early rays of sun crested over the row of bridges to shine, yellow-orange, off the dark Thames. 

“Oh,” said Newt, startling and scraping his face on the stone. He had not felt the eyes.

“I warned you that he would die,” Grindelwald said. He was sprawled on the slope of the roof, just meters from Newt, looking entirely at home. His quiet voice carried across the space between them, carried a note of _I told you so_ , a huskiness, finality.

“Did you See it?” Newt said hoarsely. 

“Darling, dearest Newt,” Gellert’s gaze was bright and tender. “You excel at losing people, don’t you? Leta, your brother, the Obscurial, and now Graves.”

There was neither pity nor amusement in Grindelwald’s eyes. Newt shot him a wary sidelong glance, to which Grindelwald arched a pale eyebrow, almost in reflex. 

“You can save as many beasts as you like, but the gaps and losses, the longing—that will remain. There is no consolation for your suffering here, not in the stagnation of your Ministry. You yearn for just what every wizard yearns for: freedom. Truth. Love. I want all of this for you. For every wizard. For myself.” 

Gellert’s eyes were magnetic, a tension of command running through his voice. Newt swallowed. He was in no mood for this, his nerves already worn thin by waiting, by their last encounter, by the news of and silence from Percival. He did not look at Grindelwald.

“There is no neutral ground left, now. You are pursued by his memory, captive to it,” Gellert unfurled from his resting place. Newt had not noticed how the other wizard approached, so slow and sinuous was his gait, so captivating and searing his words. Grindelwald spoke low, compelling Newt to listen.

He was reaching out, bare hand open, trusting and slow, as though Newt were a skittish creature. Pickett chittered up at Newt from his coat pocket. Newt only blinked when the hand slid across his cut cheek. Gellert ran his thumb over the scrape, and it was smooth skin once more. The hand trailed lightly to Newt’s shoulder and clasped it.

“Do not flee your grief,” Gellert said suddenly. “It was your choice: your misplaced affections led you here. I would not take that away from you, though I would alleviate your pain.”

Grindelwald tugged Newt to his feet, and Newt backed beyond the turrets, stumbled back, held up by the hand on his shoulder, the weathered stones of the tower wall at his back. 

“You know where the Ministry stands. To whom your brother has chosen to pledge his loyalty. There are two sides, Newt. The lines are drawn, and I would not have you a casualty to your indecision. Remaining in no man’s land is certain death. Would you join the Ministry, after they murdered Graves? Or will you see clearly, at last?”

Newt was pinned by that gaze, like a lepidopterist’s specimen on felt. The hand on his shoulder withdrew, and then tipped his chin lightly up. 

“I don’t do side-” Newt began hoarsely, but suddenly the hand was covering his mouth and Gellert’s focus shifted from him. There were several _cracks_ of apparition, a rustling of robes and conversation. Gellert’s face changed. He lunged forward to pin Newt against the stone, his wand arm snaking around to cushion the back of Newt’s head, his other hand wrapped tight about Newt’s jaw to stifle his gasp. The morning shadows hid the two wizards from sight. Gellert and Newt stared down at the group of wizards in the courtyard below. Perhaps it was due to some silent spell from Grindelwald, but the hushed voices carried across the stonework to reach Newt and Grindelwald’s ears. 

“…sure your brother is not involved?” Travers was saying, his tone snappish.

“I don’t know,” came a familiar voice. “If he were, there would be no lack of evidence.”

“He does have a remarkable knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Spielman. “Rather the opposite of you, Theseus. Yet I cannot quite find it in myself to trust that coincidence is at fault.”

“Is there a reason you wanted us to meet here, Rudolph?” Theseus said, glancing between Spielman and Travers.

“There is,” Spielman said briskly. “Theseus, Torquil… You’ve devoted your lives to magical law enforcement. You know the history of the Tower, and its ties to the Ministry?”

“Rumor has it that the Wizards’ Council first convened here,” said Theseus, frowning. “Various artefacts were kept here before they were moved to the Ministry when it was founded in the early eighteenth century. But so what?”

“It was the lost princes who founded the Order of Esoterica here, amid splendor and death… You’ve read Tycho Dodonus?” Spielman raised his eyebrows at Travers.

“Old poetry,” Travers scoffed. “What’s that got to do with the history of this place? And what’s _that_ got to do with us?”

“Tell me,” said Spielman, unfazed by his colleagues’ confusion. “What poses the greatest threat to law and order in our nation at this moment in history?”

“Fawley’s lax policies,” said Travers, at the same time as Theseus said,

“Grindelwald’s fanatics.”

“Discord in the ranks,” Grindelwald whispered into Newt’s ear, and scoffed down at the Aurors. Pickett began to climb out of Newt’s pocket to help against Grindelwald, but Newt carefully cupped his hand around him to urge the Bowtruckle to remain in his pocket. He did not dare risk a duel between the Aurors and Grindelwald. Mercifully, Picket relented.

“The root cause of both of these threats runs deeper than politics,” Spielman was saying, gazing over his dark spectacles at Theseus and Travers. “I am rather disappointed in you, gentlemen. The Ministry Family has been infiltrated. And here you stand, bickering, impatient. Are you not Aurors?”

Theseus’s eyes widened, even as Travers flushed an unpleasant red.

“What do you mean?” he snapped, eyes darting between Theseus and Spielman. “Do you have proof?”

“The heist Theseus failed to prevent was just one facet of a deep cover operation under our very noses,” Spielman said slowly, quietly. Newt had to strain his ears to hear the men in the courtyard. Grindwald’s palm grew sweaty over his mouth, his breath heated against the side of Newt’s face. Newt could hear the subtle sounds of satisfaction and amusement accompanying Grindelwald’s escaping breath. It was not dissimilar to the low, contented purr of a Kneazle, Newt thought wildly. The hand cradling the back of his head was tangled there, now, curls slotted through fingers doubled over and securely fisted, nails sharp against his scalp, the faintest pulling pressure. 

Their proximity kept them hidden. Newt could not imagine what his brother and his colleagues would think if they glanced up to see Grindelwald cradling Newt’s head. He did not think they would hesitate to attack. Grindelwald was shushing him, warm puffs of breath against his cheek, and Newt grew aware of his rapid heartbeat, and took several deep breaths where Gellert’s hand had loosened over his mouth to dig painfully into his cheeks.

 

“What makes you certain it wasn’t a one-off?” said Theseus, squinting at Spielman and Travers, his voice rising just slightly. Even at a distance, Newt could recognize the tell from every bluff Theseus had ever tried to pull. His brother was hiding something.

“There were at least two wizards, two distinct magical signatures that did not belong to Unspeakables, in the Department of Mysteries on the night in question,” Spielman said. “Unfortunately, the artefacts in the Department scramble the signatures beyond recognition. But we know for a fact there were two of them.”

“We saw Graves make off with the stolen property,” Travers interrupted, “My curse hit him hard and he and his accomplice disapparated. You claim he could not have gotten far, injured as he was when he shook us off. You claim he must be dead. If so, why have we not recovered the artefact or his body, Scamander? What sort of Aurors are we, if we cannot apprehend a corpse?”

There was venom in Travers’s tone. Theseus frowned darkly at him, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’m not proud of failing to apprehend…” Theseus began, but Spielman cut him off.

“You’re forgetting the second wizard,” Spielman wagged a finger at Travers. “The wizard who got away with the artefact, unseen. The wizard we must make our priority. It was this wizard who is behind the master plan. Graves was likely under his control, poor sod. He was a respected Auror over the pond, before all that funny impersonation business…”

“Could happen to anyone,” Travers sneered. 

Theseus kept quiet, but his frown deepened.

“This wizard was familiar with the Ministry,” Spielman started. This time Travers cut him off.

“Are we sure it wasn’t Scamander?” he said, turning a suspicious gaze onto Theseus, who paled. His left eye squinted and jumped. 

“Are you suggesting I…?”

“Not you, you daft wanker!” Travers exploded, exasperated. “Your inconvenient little brother, who was always hanging around Graves, who has in the past impersonated you to enter the Ministry, who habitually breaks the laws and gets away with it! Just because the public loves him now he’s written a children’s book doesn’t mean he’s above the law. I’d haul him in for questioning before going any further.”

“We will question Newton Scamander when we apprehend him,” Spielman agreed. “On the topic of leaving the country while he was banned from travel, and on his contact with Graves. But I suspect our culprit may be unrelated to a top Auror,” Spielman looked between Theseus and Travers again. “And since you were on patrol that night, and you nearly apprehended one of the thieves, I believe you to be trustworthy. The same cannot be said for the rest of the Ministry. This is why I want you to interview every witch and wizard in your department.”

“You believe only an Auror could break through the wards on the lift, and on the Department itself?” said Theseus, nodding. “You think we have a mole?”

“Not necessarily, but we must begin somewhere,” said Spielman. “I want a report from both of you by the end of this week. The Ministry Family must be kept honest. We cannot have traitors in our midst. I hope you realize the significance of this investigation, and the discretion with which I must ask you to proceed. Every consultant you deem capable of this grievous crime—yes, including your brother—must be vetted alongside your department.”

The Aurors nodded.

“Permission to use Veritaserum as needed?” said Theseus.

“Permission to use force?” said Travers.

Spielman nodded grimly without verbal response, then added, “The threat of Azkaban is the most lenient sentence here. Do not muck this up, gentlemen. There have been too many leaks of late. I want you to find them, and to plug them.”

Spielman disapparated first. 

Travers turned to Theseus and all but snarled, “If I begin to think you’ve helped your friend Graves and your brother in this, I’ll arrest you myself, Scamander.”

He disapparated with a violent _crack_. Theseus let out a harried sigh and put his face in his hands. He spent several minutes in this pose, as though waiting.

“Where the hell are you, Newt?” he muttered to himself, and disapparated.

Grindelwald chuckled low in Newt’s ear.

“It seems we are both wanted men,” he said softly, stepping back and wiping his hand on Newt’s lapel. The mingled sweat and saliva soaked into the fabric of Newt’s coat. The hand in Newt’s hair remained, tugging such that Newt was forced to gaze at the overcast morning sky, chin angled up to expose his throat. He swallowed.

“It’s an irony worthy of your Shakespeare,” Grindelwald muttered, his thumb coming up to trace Newt’s bobbing Adam’s apple, down to the hollow of his throat, a light, brushing touch that turned warm and firm. Newt shivered. Grindelwald’s voice was detached when he spoke: “Your brother, killing Percy and hunting you. Is this not the clearest delineation of sides you have ever seen, darling?”

“You clearly don’t know my brother,” Newt said through his teeth. The grip on his hair grew painful. “He’d never hurt Percival or me. Unlike your relentless pursuit of power by any means… Theseus has a conscience, he knows right from wrong.”

“Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe: our strong arms be our conscience, wands our law,” Grindelwald said, voice taking on the same lilting cadence he had used when reading poetry to Newt in an empty bookshop. The hand in his hair loosened gradually, and Newt met a gleaming pair of eyes warily. It was difficult not to lean into the warm hand tugging just so at his hair.

“’Tis better, sir, to be brief than tedious,” Newt quipped back, then. 

“If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell,” Grindelwald returned with a strange warmth in his gaze. Newt blinked. The hand carding through his hair had dropped away, and Grindelwald took a step back, surveying Newt almost mournfully.

His silvery-blue eye blinked, and gazed at something far off, then, his dark eye going strangely blank. His skin lost what little color it had. Newt, who was backed into the wall, grabbed Grindelwald by the lapels of his jacket when the dark wizard swayed dangerously, precariously, toward the edge of the roof. Newt pulled too hard to compensate, and Grindelwald was falling forward onto him. Newt moved his hands from black lapels to Grindelwald’s ribs, grabbing the insensate wizard. Grindelwald was heavy, but Newt was strong, and the wall behind him gave him leverage. 

“Gellert!” he whispered urgently. “Wake up! Gellert!”

It took a long time for the fog to clear from Grindelwald’s eyes. There was a moment when Grindelwald clearly did not know where he was. The recognition in his eyes, like a drowning man surfacing for air, was desperately raw and grasping. His eyes jerked, his mouth working like a ventriloquist dummy’s, and his entire form gave a shudder before he gasped again and the fit was over. Newt held him upright, searching his face for deception where there seemed to be none.

“You did not throw me from the Tower,” Grindelwald observed, leaning into the embrace as his vision focused, his lips parting, his eyes bleary but drinking in Newt’s face as though he had never seen freckles and worry, as though he would never be sated.

“I still might,” Newt breathed. “Are you unwell?”

“I Saw us in the cemetery,” Grindelwald said slowly, blinking away the blankness that overtook his gaze at the recollection. “The deadline approaches. You’ve less than a day left to tell Dumbledore. And I want you there for it, schneeglöckchen. You and Albus, both.”

“You saw…? You saw me bringing Dumbledore to you? Are your visions always this debilitating?”

“I saw that it will snow, tonight,” Grindelwald said cryptically, weaving his arms around Newt’s shoulders. Newt’s eyes widened. “There is a legend,” Grindelwald whispered, as though he were telling Newt a secret, “about how when it was first created, snow had the enviable task of visiting all the flowers of the earth. The snow needed to gather colors, but all the flowers refused. They were frightened, perhaps, or put off by the cold,” Grindelwald raised his eyes to Newt’s to find the magizoologist was studying him closely, mystified. “All the flowers refused, until the snow visited the gentle snowdrop…”

Grindelwald licked his lips. Newt had not noticed, before, how sensual his mouth was when he spoke and smiled. It was the dizzying proximity, playing with his senses. The warmth of human contact in the morning chill, the smell of cloves and pears, the feel of breath on his skin and the weight of a body pressed so near. And the fable—fables usually held some truth to them. Newt enjoyed folk stories, followed many to their sources, magical creatures and their hiding spots. Grindelwald was a masterful storyteller. His hands had found Newt’s hair again, at the back of his head, and were tugging just so.

“Seeing that the snowdrop was a kind and generous soul, the snow decided to make a deal with it,” Grindelwald’s gaze flicked up from Newt’s mouth to his eyes, which appeared more green than blue over purple circles and so, so close. “In exchange for his color, the snow agreed to let the snowdrop bloom first every spring, unharmed by the frost. The delicate snowdrop agreed, and cheerfully blooms amid the snow every spring.”

“I’m sorry?” said Newt, on the edge of hearing.

“Delicate,” Grindelwald repeated with a sad, ironic smile, “but so resilient to the frost. Until tonight, little snowdrop.”

He was leaning forward, lips brushing Newt’s lips just as Grindelwald disapparated. Newt exhaled, reeling. He leaned back against the wall Gellert had pinned him to and struggled to catch his breath, which he had been holding. Then his eyes overflowed, and he sank down level with the parapets and gave a snuffling little sob. 

Auburn eyelashes clumping and sticky with tears, Newt finally did what he had intended to do when apparating to the Tower—he cried.


	10. The Graveyard pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is on the shorter side but the next one will be double the length, and is nearly prettied up. 
> 
> In other words, I'm not dead, hi hello, please be warned of graphic content ahead? I mean you probably know by now that there's some whump in the cards, from all directions. The plot's picking up a bit! Lots of exciting things in store... meanwhile, please chime in and let me know what works and doesn't work for ya <3 comments feed my thirsty soul XD
> 
> See specific trigger warnings in end notes-->

Ch 10. The Graveyard pt 1 

 

St. Jerome’s was a very old church, constructed of the local grey stone but weathered by centuries to a rugged milky-grey. The stained glass window above its doors glowed against the gloaming sky like an overripe pomegranate.

There was evidence of neither wizarding nor Muggle folk until, suddenly, two men appeared on a small patch of lawn beside the closed-down well. The long summer dusk painted the western sky with streaks of pink cloud even as velvety darkness fell, and dragonflies buzzed in the cooling air. They two men cut thin, black silhouettes against the fading light.

“You grew up here,” Newt said, looking at the little cottage houses beyond the church, and the street leading down to the village center, dotted with glowing streetlamps. Dumbledore stepped away from him. His hand, which had gripped Newt’s arm during side-along apparition, went to his pocket. His shoulders were rounded, tugging at the fabric of his corduroy coat.

“We did,” Dumbledore said, and then amended. “My brother couldn’t wait to leave this place. Too small for him. Fitting, that it’ll be the end of one who presumes to know what’s best for everyone else.”

His light blue eyes found the church door, and he made for it.

“Wait,” said Newt, looking nervously between Dumbledore and the graveyard beyond the crumbling stone wall. The road-facing lots were tidy and planted with marigolds, late-blooming dahlias and long-stemmed cosmos, the flowerheads washed pale by the dim light and swaying. A copse of trees obscured the back wall, where rows of worn tombstones could barely be discerned. 

“It’s not too late, if you don’t want to involve yourself,” Newt said haltingly. His right hand gave a great throb and he winced. He could still feel the imprints of Grindelwald’s hands like fire on his face, his head, his lips... they lingered with him from dawn and grew unbearably more intimate as the midnight rendezvous drew near.

“I wouldn’t be here if I did not want to be,” Dumbledore replied quietly. “Now, let’s not lose our advantage, eh, Scamander? I’ll take the church. Signal with _Vermilious_.”

Dumbledore disappeared through the door of the church, and Newt let himself in through the wooden gate and into the churchyard. At first he stuck nearer St. Jerome’s, where he assumed the oldest graves lay. Enormously old oak trees cast their boughs over the entrance to and the periphery of the graveyard, an overcast night sky of black and grey filtering through the rustling darkness of their leaves. Acorns crunched beneath Newt’s feet. The half-decayed leaves of years past stirred on abandoned graves. 

Newt paid no mind to the newer plots with their neat flowers and half-melted candles. There were more magical names further from the church, nearer the whispering oak trees. Newt made out the herbs growing over these graves, flowering knotgrass and valerian, horseradish greens and purple aconite in bloom. Little three-leaved stalks of moondew trailed the path through overgrown grass between these plots. Newt stepped through the Muggle-repelling wards, feeling the wash of magic on his skin. The moondew’s little white flowers beckoned him to the far wall, where they grew in a circle around an altogether sorry-looking grave. Newt’s eyes flitted to and fro, trying to make out the names.

Newt whispered _Lumos!_ and examined the tombstones, curious about Grindelwald’s words, curious about the stories the plantings told. _You know which stone,_ Gellert had said, but Newt didn’t know. Snowdrops hardly bloomed at the end of August! 

Snowdrops bloomed in April. Around the time Newt and Percival had left Arizona by Portkey, from Los Angeles to New York by way of the Portkey Terminal in Chicago, where they met a late snowstorm and Newt tracked and then lost what he suspected to be a pair of jackalopes with white winter fur just fading to their tawny summer coats. Newt couldn’t recall any unusual events in April, events that Grindelwald might ascribe significance to now. He kept looking.

There were very old families resting here. A monument to Gryffindor, for whom the village was named. An ostentatious pillar of a memorial, dark, veined marble worn smooth with age. Twined by morning glory and covered in forget-me-nots and cornflowers was the stone for Ariana Dumbledore, beneath layers of notice-me-not charms and beside an austere stone where lay Kendra and a mysterious stone labeled A.D., 1901-1901. The infant’s stone was small, but the engraved letters and dates were gilded, and they gleamed in the light of Newt’s wand. Newt bowed his head before he moved on. Percival Dumbledore was nowhere to be found. The absence of the name jarred Newt’s worries about the absence of his own Percival, and he frowned, absently rubbing his right hand with his left.

He did not think Grindelwald meant these tombstones. But then, what?

Newt passed old stones and new ones, many with a death year of 1918, more still too faded to read. It was an ancient wizarding hamlet, Godric’s Hollow, and Newt did not know what he was looking for. He meandered to a halt at a plot near the back wall, a crumbling stone foundation and several square meters of land gone utterly to seed. Dandelions and thistles flowered in the weed-choked plot, and the moondew flowers ringed it with their pale blossoms peering out of the weeds like little eyes. Newt leaned back with a sigh, onto what he thought was the stone wall beneath a layer of dry ivy. Pickett stuck his head out of his pocket and hopped out, skittering to the ground on Newt’s clothes and hiding behind an ivy leaf. Newt watched him with wry concern.

“Don’t get lost, now,” Newt said, putting his wand in his mouth and going down on his hands and knees, ducking his head parallel to the ground to catch sight of Pickett. The dry grass tickled his ear as the wand in his mouth shone beneath the ivy. What he had thought was a wall was actually a tall and crooked stone, the lettering faded beneath the ivy leaves. Newt began to move the ivy obscuring the lettering, to try to get a look at this curiously old monument. It felt a little familiar, like the smell of a humid, mossy forest, like something out of a dream or childhood memory. He was just uncovering a name, on the edge of unearthing something he could not recall, something that felt portentous, when he was interrupted.

“I see you’ve finally learned your place,” said a derisive voice. Newt peered around, his fringe falling across his right eye, his wand still in his mouth.

He stumbled up to his feet and his wand was in his hand and pointing at the speaker in seconds.

“Don’t get up out of the dirt on my account,” sneered Grimmson, flicking his wand and levitating a struggling Pickett toward himself. Newt’s eyes widened and he lurched forward, disarming curse on his lips, but Grimmson was faster. Instead of continuing to levitate the Bowtruckle, he trained his wand on Newt. 

Sparks exploded behind Newt’s eyes, and there was a rushing sound, like wind or water in his ears. Newt struggled up, tears in his eyes and the wetness at his left temple and the back of his head accompanied by a sharp, wailing pain. Dry ivy and stone dust crunched beneath his hands, at the back of his skull. Darkness encroached on his vision.

Grimmson was walking toward him at a leisurely pace. He wore a strange vambrace on his right forearm. It was scorched in places, and there was a subtle glow of deflective enchantments about it, an inlay of Ironbelly shield scales onto leather. Newt blinked rapidly to clear his vision of the strange auras he was seeing around objects: the angry red halo around Grimmson, the blue sheen of the silver scales in the splinted vambrace, the enhanced blackness of the surrounding tombstones and shadows, the white floaters of flowers blotting his sight.

“What now?” Newt ground out, staggering to remain upright, leaning back on the old tombstone. His balance wavered in the onslaught of spinning colors. There was a funny, itchy feeling on his lower back, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming pain in his head. “Why are you here? Were you following me?”

“I was tracking little Credence for the Ministry,” Grimmson said, smiling nastily. “The job you were too soft to take. You always were weaker than your brother, hiding and running instead of facing me like a man.”

“Tracking Credence?” Newt’s voice was barely a breath when he said, “What does the Ministry want with him?”

“Don’t you worry about him, Scamander,” Grimmson said. “I’ll come back for him. He’ll have his turn. First, I’m going to apprehend you.”

Newt had less than a second in which to protect himself and Pickett as Grimmson sent a jet of fire shooting at them from his wand. Newt’s head pulsed with pain: he cast the shield and apparated simultaneously. Newt cried out when he landed with a thud behind Grimmson, a piercing pain in his right ear. It felt like the time the Murtlap had taken a piece out of it, and when he raised his hand to it he found it bloody and mangled. Newt did not have time to lament the small splinching. Grimmson was rounding on him, a curse on his lips. Newt shielded, then disarmed him. His defensive magic really was improving with practice. 

“Apprehend me on what authority? On what charge?” Newt challenged, when Grimmson staggered back, wand lost to Newt’s spell. They were both breathing heavily, though Newt was in worse shape. 

“You know the charges, Scamander! _Silencio!_ ” 

Newt stumbled, feeling the impact but not quite understanding what had happened. It was in that moment that Grimmson jumped forward and wrenched both wands from Newt’s hand. Travers, who had stepped out from behind an oak tree, hit Newt with a disarming curse for good measure. The overpowered spell had Newt rolling to a stop on the ground again, the leaves and darkness whirling nauseatingly about him. This time he did not try to get up.

“But as it is my job, I can enumerate your crimes for you,” Travers continued, stepping forward. His eyes glinted from beneath the brim of his hat. “You’ve violated your travel ban, you’ve been harboring and hiding dangerous creatures, and, worst of all, you assisted Graves in sneaking into the Ministry and escaping with stolen government secrets. I’ll be surprised if they don’t let the Dementors have you after all the trouble you’ve caused.”

Grimmson raised his eyebrows and chimed in, “Scamander always did love getting close and personal with creatures.”

“You were right to request backup after the incident in Wales,” Travers said to Grimmson. “I’ll take him in. You find the Obscurial.”

Newt could hear Travers give orders, but it still came as something of a shock when he crouched down next to where Newt lay and grabbed the collar of his coat. Pickett hopped onto the hem of Newt’s trouser leg just as they disapparated. 

 

A short time later Newt found himself sitting in a brightly lit interrogation cell, his hands and feet restrained by manacles and cuffs attached to enchanted metal chains which pulled his joints taut to the metal chair. He wondered why this kept happening. Spared a thought to his case, which was safe.

His ear stung fiercely, and his head pounded with both lack of sleep and the blows he had received back in the graveyard. What concerned Newt the most, however, was the mounting sensation of liquid fire along the scars of his right hand. The sensation was spreading down his wrist and forearm, creeping slowly like the surest of poisons. The coolness of the metal chains was almost a relief.

When Travers, Spielman, and a pale Theseus entered the cell, Newt spared them a glance and then looked back down at his lap. 

“Why’s he restrained and bloodied?” Theseus said sharply, approaching Newt and mending his ear with his wand. Newt tensed and then forcefully relaxed his shoulders. “What sort of precedent does this set? He is a suspect, not a convicted criminal! Newt, did they do this to you?”

Newt did not look up or respond. Theseus rounded on Travers and Spielman. 

“If you can’t rein in your nepotism, you should wait outside, Scamander,” said Travers. He withdrew his wand and a small case, which he opened. There were four small, stoppered flasks within, and he took these out gently and set them on the table before Newt. One was colorless. The other three were red, green, and blue, and Newt drew back when Travers settled in the chair opposite him and smiled courteously.

“Ask him about his case,” said Spielman. Travers nodded, his eyes never leaving Newt.

“You’re an unconventional wizard, Mr. Scamander,” he said finally. “You know the charges levied against you. You have knowingly broken into the Ministry in the past. All we need is a confession, and we can move to securing you the best plea deal. Your brother is here for your comfort. He insisted he be present during this interrogation. Despite your recalcitrant and frankly petulant silence, we will proceed. Since you have refused to say a word since you have got here, I think an unconventional method is called for.”

Travers paused and gestured at the bottles.

“Think of this as the carrot and the stick,” he smirked. A frowning Theseus peered over his shoulder. “You answer my question, and I’ll reward you with a drop of salve for your injuries. You refuse to answer or lie, and I’ll use one of the other potions. It’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

Newt met his gaze for a moment and looked away.

“Are you harboring the fugitive Obscurial?” said Travers, staring pointedly at Newt.

Newt opened his mouth but no sound came out. He closed it and licked his dry lips, blinking and meeting Travers’ gaze with questioning eyes. Travers’s lip curled downward.

“Being obstinate, I see,” he said, uncorking the green flask. Newt tried to turn his head, but the chains on the chair tightened magically, crawling up his torso to limit his movement further. The links digging into his clavicle curled over his shoulder and the base of his neck, as though threatening to cut off his airway.

Newt felt a flash of panic; the room dimmed to resemble the smoky warehouse where Grindelwald hovered over him with a razor and a look of concentration. A furrow between white brows. A cigarette bobbing between pink lips. Sweat and gooseflesh on Newt’s skin, halted breathing, the scrape of a razor and the drip of soapy water, the press of bony fingers on his face and sweetness on his tongue. The feel of the wall behind him, Grindelwald’s breath on his lips… When the room swam back into view, Newt saw Travers and tasted the bitterness of the green potion, heard Theseus shouting his name. And then a new wave of agony hit. 

“This is not necessary or called for,” Theseus said angrily, stepping forward. Spielman raised a hand to his shoulder, shaking his head in warning. Had Newt made a sound, Theseus might have resisted his superior, but the room was strangely silent and he obeyed.

It was like every ache Newt’s body had ever had was awoken, every old injury razed and inflamed and seared open once more. Newt screamed soundlessly, his eyes streaming, the chains digging into flesh. His lungs ached, his back burst into pain where the symbol of the Deathly Hallows had once resided. Every scar felt like it was splitting open, the poison, fangs, and claws digging into his flesh. His left arm was broken, his right side melting in dragon fire, the breath stolen from his throat, fingers closing, his windpipe bruising. Newt gasped out a plea, but his cries stuck in his throat. His back arched from the chair. His magic lashed out as he writhed, stirring a wind about the cell. Spielman and Theseus staggered from the feel of the airy desperation, the wave of Newt’s panicked magic setting their hair on end. Spielman’s hand dropped from Theseus’s shoulder. 

Theseus did not hesitate. He whipped his wand at the chains digging into Newt, loosening the hold. Then he grabbed Travers by the tie and shouted something, and Travers gestured at the red potion. Theseus uncorked it with his teeth and poured it into Newt’s slack mouth. Newt was no longer writhing, but his breathing was labored and uneven, as though he would be moaning in pain if he could give voice to his experience. He drank the potion down, sputtering, but even his coughing made no sound. Theseus rounded on Travers.

“Are you mad?” he barked. His hair was falling out of its neat coiffure, and his hands were sweaty over his wand. Newt looked to be half-conscious, the dried blood dark at his temple and around his right ear. He was breathing heavily, fringe plastered to his forehead, tear tracks on his face. Theseus glared at Travers as Spielman straightened up.

“That’s enough of that, gentlemen,” Spielman said. “The bonds of the Ministry family are?”

“More sacred than bonds of blood,” Travers recited dutifully. Spitefully. Theseus shook his head.

“Right, but this isn’t working,” he said, “clearly we need a different approach. Won’t you let me try?”

“Let’s do it your way, then,” Spielman said. Travers rose and straightened his tie. “I’ll be right outside, Scamander.”

They brushed past Theseus, who seemed to deflate when he was left alone in the room with Newt. He caught a glimpse of Spielman as the door closed, raising a challenging eyebrow.

 

“ _Nox! Ennervate! Finite!_ ”

“Thee?” Newt croaked. It was darker in the interrogation cell, and Theseus was leaning over him, looking very unhappy. Newt wondered what he had done this time. Pickett was sitting atop a pair of manacles that lay open on his lap, near Newt’s wrists. The metal chair was digging into his back, but the real ache was in his head and his right hand, which felt like it had been submerged in scalding water. The magical chains jangled threateningly but did not ensnare him.

“I sent for an attorney of magical law, they have to you provide you one,” Theseus said hurriedly. “I won’t let them torture you again. Travers didn’t mean for it to go that far, I don’t think, his interrogation. He didn’t realize the potency of that draught. Merlin, Newt, I thought…” Theseus wiped his nose on his sleeve and glanced away. “I thought you were being stubborn, not answering, but someone put a silencing charm on you.”

“It was Travers,” Newt said hoarsely.

Theseus frowned. “No, he couldn’t have,” he started, caught himself, and broke off. “Are you sure?”

Newt averted his eyes and sighed.

“I mean, that’s abuse of power,” several expressions flitted across Theseus’s face before it settled on outrage. “That’s not interrogation, it’s just torture!”

“Listen, Thee, you’ve got to help me get out of here,” Newt interrupted. “Is it midnight yet? I must be at Godric’s Hollow at midnight.”

“What? You’ve been arrested, surely your rendezvous can wait, Newt. If I could get you out of here that quickly I would, but we need to follow the official channels. You’ll only incur further trouble if you break any laws now,” Theseus said, his voice taking on the officious tone that he used to reprimand Newt. “I’m sorry, Newt, but we need to clear your name the right way. You can’t just run off whenever you feel-”

“I made a vow,” Newt had grabbed Theseus by the hand and met his gaze. “Please. I must be there by midnight.”

“Who did you…?” Theseus trailed off, and saw that the hand Newt had offered him was covered in a net of scars. “Newt, is this an unbreakable vow?” he said slowly. “Who did you make it with?”

Newt withdrew his hand and shuddered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for forced feeding (well, drinking) a sort of poison and generally interrogation that is more torture than anything else, as well as some PTSD flashbacks and generally depressing stuff. It'll get better, but not for a few chapters. A lot of things are not what they seem? I don't think that's helpful, exactly, or hopeful, but ... eh?
> 
> Be well <3


	11. The Graveyard pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a cliffhanger coming up, sorry about that! next chapter involves a ghostly Peverell and a "hollow" dilemma. I should probably include some trigger warnings -- click the end notes for 'em

Ch 11. The Graveyard pt 2

Dumbledore paused before crossing the threshold of the church. They had never visited it on Sundays as a family. Never really been part of the community of the village. He remembered watching boys and girls dressed up in ironed clothes and blackened shoes, despondent on their way into church. After church, they would splatter mud on their shoes and waistcoats, running down the lane toward the pond where they could fish, or catch tadpoles and beetles. He had always felt a secret envy of the parochial Muggle children. Their father had not minded them playing with the Muggles at first, and it was Kendra who routinely forbade them to interact with the village folks. Before Ariana’s attack, and the subsequent sundering of their family. 

She had been the youngest Dumbledore, and a buffer between the two brothers. Dumbledore swallowed and reached into his waistcoat pocket, brushing past Newt’s letter to retrieve a flask. The whiskey heated his sternum, which felt hollowed out without its comforting burn. From what little he could recall of the potions curriculum, it ought not interact with Polyjuice.

The church appeared empty. The dim light of dripping wax candles held vigil against the oncoming night. Part of Dumbledore had wanted to take Scamander’s offered out and flee, to retreat to his pub where the portrait of Ariana and the bottle could offer consolation, where he might continue to stew. But another part of him, the part that clenched in white hot anger at his brother, wanted to see the man who had corrupted and misled him, who had caused their sister’s death. 

Dumbledore tensed, training his wand on the moving shadows and banishing them with a flick to reveal a shock of white hair. Grindelwald was older, but beneath the wrinkles and the mustache, his smirk was just as cynical, just as provoking. He had the same gleam in his eyes. It had never been directed at him before, not with such hungry malice.

“Come here to pray?” Grindelwald said. His eyes posed a different question, flitting between the rowan wand in Dumbledore’s hand and his face.

Dumbledore struck without hesitation. Grindelwald took several steps back, surprise flashing over his face. It seemed to take him very little effort to block Dumbledore’s spells.

“Fighting in a church?” he said, tutting. “For shame, Albus.”

Dumbledore snarled.

Theirs was a dance composed of short steps, of pivots and flicks of the wrist, of flashing lights and whooshing spells. A curse nicked Grindelwald’s leg and Dumbledore pressed his advantage. But Grindelwald’s reflexes became lightning fast, his spells gaining power as he advanced, staring down Dumbledore as though he were offended, as though Dumbledore had stepped on his foot or committed a comparable faux pas. Grindelwald frowned thoughtfully at him, blocking a curse with a wooden pew which broke apart on impact.

“You’re not Albus,” Grindelwald said, eyes narrowing. “Who? Ah… the little brother, always trailing in our wake. Such a sad, lonely child.”

“I’ll have you!” Dumbledore brought his wand down, and a swarm of enormous, glittering black insects materialized to attack Grindelwald.

Grindelwald’s stark white wand bobbed in the fray, and the insects fell to the ground, wilting black flowers with droopy petals. Grindelwald stepped over them with exaggerated care.

“Did Newton bring me the wrong Dumbledore?” he mused, a genuine smile overtaking his features, pale eyebrows rising. His eyes narrowed, then, and shone bright in the dim church. The white wand bobbed to and fro like a patronizing finger. “Were you hoping to kill me, Aberforth?” 

 

* * *

“He was deceitful and combative, and resisted arrest. I had to call on Gunnar for backup. Who knows how compromised Theseus is,” Travers pressed, gesturing between Spielman and the semi-transparent walls of the interrogation cell. “I believe he’s working for Grindelwald. There’s been too many coincidences, too many sightings of them traipsing across Europe together. Berlin last year, and now Rumania? Something’s afoot, and it looks to be an international conspiracy. I think Grindelwald is fomenting rebellion within the Ministry Family.”

Spielman sighed.

“You’re sounding positively outlandish, Travers. I highly doubt Newton Scamander is tangled up in international intrigue. He’s a small fish in a big net.”

“So you’re just going to let him get away with it?” Travers burst out, indignant. “Get away with ignoring the laws when it suits him, strutting around Europe with his madcap menagerie and sowing chaos wherever he goes? He’s dangerous, I’m sure of it.”

“I suppose it is best to be thorough,” Spielman said, as though he had not heard Travers who was speaking loudly into his ear. “Go ahead and question him. Come to me if your suspicions prove to have any foundation in evidence.”

Theseus looked back regretfully when Spielman called him, but he left, taking with him Newt’s hopes of escape. 

Travers put the manacles back on Newt by hand, meeting his eyes with a hard look when they locked into place. He muttered, “ _Levicorpus,_ ” and Newt found himself hauled away, floating like a sack of flour, head level with his feet and horizontal to the floor. The handcuffs separated and linked themselves behind his back, connecting to the ankle-cuffs Travers had conjured. 

When Newt tried to ask after his brother, after where they were going, and if he might be allowed his Floo call, Travers paused. He kept Newt suspended, floating in the dark, empty hallway. They were in the bowels of the Ministry, where the walls were made of smooth, dark stone. The blue-flamed candles painted their skin with an eerie pallor. Travers leaned against a wall as he casually took off one of his boots, then the other. He rolled down and removed his socks and balled them together. Then he clasped the fingers of his left hand painfully on Newt’s chin, forcing his mouth open. Travers crammed the socks into Newt’s mouth and gave Newt’s distended cheek a couple pats before he pulled his boots back on, casting a look at his handiwork. Travers’s lip pulled up, and the mocking light in his eyes made Newt distinctly aware that there was no one else around. He had shoved Pickett unceremoniously into Theseus's pocket before his brother had left, concerned for the safety of the Bowtruckle. Newt missed his companionship immediately.

Newt was levitated further, down corridors of black tile and into hallways of dank, grey stone. It grew progressively colder and darker. Travers walked quickly, levitating Newt along in front of him. Newt lost track of the turns they had taken. The night was feeling distinctly more surreal and nightmarish by the second. Most of all, Newt now lamented his hesitation. If he had moved faster, if he had spotted Travers, he might still be in Godric’s Hollow. He wondered if Aberforth knew he was gone, and if Grindelwald had already arrived. The pain in his hand was now a wailing, constant burn. He wondered if the vow would consider itself complete, or if the pain was a symptom that its magic had begun to kill him. He really didn’t want to die with Travers’s dirty socks in his mouth.

Travers spelled a heavy door open, and candles flared to life at their presence.

Despite their blue glow, the room was murky and humid. Travers shivered and Newt felt gooseflesh rise on his skin. There was something distinctly wrong in the chamber, lingering like a foul stench and just as pervasive. A cold fog seemed to cloud his vision. Didn't they keep Dementors in the very depths of the Ministry to subdue dangerous prisoners awaiting trial and Azkaban? Newt regretted, with not a little dread, that he had never managed to produce a corporeal Patronus.

Travers closed the door behind him with his left hand before he lowered his wand. The spell levitating Newt cut out, and Newt fell to the floor in a heap, chains and cuffs clanging against stone and bruising skin. He groaned into the makeshift gag, keeping his gaze on the floor, which was stained with something dark. The chains connecting his wrists to his ankles vanished, and Newt sat up, the cold stone biting into his knees.

Travers’ sockless, booted feet walked into view, and then he removed the soggy gag, leaving Newt wondering if the purpose of the exercise had been merely to humiliate him, coughing the taste of the Auror’s feet, his sweat, from his mouth. Before he could catch his breath, Travers had his chin in an iron grip and was spelling something down his throat. Newt gagged, imagining a pair of amused, indulgent eyes where there was only a cold, hard glare. The different forms cruelty took, Newt mused. The fingers bit into his chin and cheeks and then relented.

“This is justice, not cruelty,” Travers said dismissively. 

Newt wondered if he had spoken aloud. Travers waved his wand and conjured a chair, waved it again and the shackles came alive and directed Newt into it, fastening onto the arms and legs of both magizoologist and chair. 

“More of the same?” Newt said tiredly. “I don’t understand what you want to hear from me. Is visiting a graveyard illegal, now?”

“Did you hide the Obscurial from the Ministry?” Travers interjected coolly.

“Sort of,” Newt found himself saying, without his permission. “Mostly I worked with him to re-integrate the Obscurus back into his magic, and we seem to have largely succeeded. It is a chronic condition. But I begin to think he’s turned his trauma into a sort of unconventional strength. He really is very remarkable. Dumbledore sees it too, of course. He insisted Credence be taken to Wales. I’m not entirely sure if I was distancing Credence from you lot, or from Dumbledore himself,” Newt trailed off. The sudden loquaciousness had overtaken him without his consent.

“Answer the question without digressing, Scamander,” said Travers, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. There was a dicta-quill scratching on paper, Newt only noticed its movement and sound after his monologue. It reminded him of Fawkes, though his feathers were shinier and crimson.

“You’re keeping a phoenix?” Travers said dubiously, “Where is your case, anyway?”

Newt was grateful he had trusted the case to the keeping of the Nundu in his flat’s basement hospital. Travers brought a hand to the bridge of his nose and began to massage it.

“Very well, we will get to that. You were telling your brother about a vow. With whom did you make it?”

“Oh, I proposed it to Gellert,” said Newt, once again surprised that his lips moved. The dull ache in his hand pulsed in time to his heartbeat.

Travers had perked up. “Are you a supporter of Grindelwald? Were you working with Graves to break into the Ministry?”

Newt shook his head to both, wondering why Travers would ask such ridiculous questions. Travers’s excited, flushed face seemed to take up a disproportionate amount of his vision. A vein in the Auror’s temple jumped.

“Explain the terms of the unbreakable vow to me, Scamander.”

“Gellert was holding Percival hostage. I had to save Perce, to wake him. He was only there to help me protect the dragons! And now Gellert wants me to betray Dumbledore. I think I’ve found a workaround, but it may kill me just the same. Hurts like the devil.”

“Graves is not working with Grindelwald?”

“No,” Newt gave an uncomfortable smile at the absurdity. He looked up from where he had been surveying his splayed right hand. Really, Travers was full of such strange notions. No wonder he had been such a stuffy upperclassman at Hogwarts. His hand stung and burned, but the headache had all but evaporated. His head felt light on his shoulders, his chest full of cotton candy. He drooped back against the chair. He felt like he was still being levitated, cradled by magic and by gravity at once, a warmth in his core even as his extremities were cold. All but his right hand, which felt aflame. Newt frowned at it.

“Why did Grindelwald make the vow? What did he want from you?”

“Unspecified favors,” Newt said, and then, “I’m not sure. It’s perplexing…but he seems intent upon recruiting me. Or seducing me? It’s all very confusing. I wish he had stuck to reading me poetry, I didn’t mind that so much. He has a good voice for reading.”

There was a blessed silence in which Travers gaped at Newt, and Newt wondered why his hands were stuck to the chair until he saw the chains. Ah, right. He was being interrogated. 

Much as he loathed Grindelwald’s impersonation of Percival, Newt found that he had preferred Grindelwald interrogating him back in New York to Travers’s work now. Of course he preferred Grindelwald as himself and Percival as himself, thank you very much. They were very different, and he could not imagine not seeing the difference. Both spectacular in their way, of course, and presumptuous. Both apex predators, both highly charismatic, prone to peacocking, powerful…that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it?

“Oh?” said Travers faintly.

“Like a Niffler to gold,” Newt tried to explain, “Except power is always a corrupting force, isn’t it? How can it draw me so? I’ve seen the harm, I take no pleasure from your treatment. Yet when it comes to them, there’s an undeniable thrill. It’s akin to befriending the wilderness and glimpsing its secrets. I do not compromise its essence by presuming to tame it. I participate on its terms, and I’m rewarded for it by witnessing its true nature. But moral relativism might justify anything…and I’m afraid, I’m afraid because I know the flame that draws me will burn me, warp me, and ruin all that I hold dear. I don’t crave power, but why then am I drawn to those who wield it? Is it the idealism inherent to revolutionaries which appeals to me? I looked up to Dumbledore, as a child. I still do, in many ways. But people like him, they seek the uses of dragon’s blood and Gellert, the Ministry, you seek the uses of dragons. Only Perce really seems to—seemed to—” he broke off, his voice failing as the breath caught in his throat. 

Although lately, Gellert had seemed more human than the Ministry ever had. Perhaps Newt was being unfair toward Gellert. He could laugh at the thought. He was surprised to find he was laughing, which set him off on another round. He wanted both Percival and Gellert, and they hated each other. Well, Travers? How could he reconcile such contradictory desire? Dumbledore insisted Newt always did the right thing, but how in Merlin's name could any of this be right?

“Don’t you know that concussions and Veritaserum don’t mix?” said Grimmson, emerging from the shadow of the door. Newt had not noticed him, had not noticed Travers rising to feel his forehead, to give his cheek a light slap. “Now, step away from Scamander.”

“What are you doing down here, giving me orders? Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of the Obscurial?” snapped Travers. Newt’s laughter and strange confessions had unnerved him. “I think this Veritaserum is tainted. Scamander’s been spouting nonsense. Perhaps his brother tampered with our stores?”

Travers was gazing at Newt with disdain and confusion, and behind him, Grimmson was raising his wand. Part of Newt wanted to warn Travers, but he was out of breath from laughter, and somehow he felt on the verge of crying. He did not want to cry in front of Travers and Grimmson. His hand really did hurt, and his throat was dry from speaking so much, he really could do with a cuppa or some water...

“ _Obliviate!_ ” said Grimmson, bringing his wand down in a flash of white light. Travers collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. “ _Imperio._ Newton Scamander is innocent,” Grimmson intoned into Travers’s ear. “You could not hold him without evidence. You let him go. Go on to Spielman and tell him so. Tell him you forgot to remove the silencing charm. Take your hat, now, Torquil.”

Travers repeated the words slowly, his eyes glazed. He took his hat and went from the room as though in a daze. Grimmson waved his wand and the dicta-quill and parchment burnt away to nothing.

“It’s your lucky day, Scamander,” Grimmson muttered, spelling the chains and shackles off of Newt, who felt very thirsty and tired. “Here,” he handed Newt a glass of something. Newt drank, and his head began to clear immediately. The pain redoubled, and with it, suspicion.

“Why are you helping me?” Newt said, gazing between the open door and Grimmson, who was kneeling before him, tucking away a satchel. Newt saw two wands in his pocket, and he snatched the one with the silvery handle. “I won’t go with you!”

Newt rose, his head pounding behind his eyes, vision swimming. He trained his wand on Grimmson. The tip was shaking.

“What time is it?” Newt asked suddenly. For the first time, he was regretting destroying his pocketwatch.

“Time to go,” said Grimmson, looking displeased. He strode forward and Newt took several loping steps back. “Merlin’s balls, Scamander,” Grimmson growled. “I’m breaking you out.”

“You’re what?” 

But Grimmson took the moment of confusion and dove forward, grasping a handful of Newt’s hair and tugging hard. Newt yowled in pain, his eyes streaming. Grimmson was no taller than Newt, but he was twice as broad and comfortable in his aggression.

“I’ve always wanted to try this,” Grimmson muttered, fixing a firm grip on Newt’s hair. And then he disapparated.

 

* * *

Grimmson and Newt appeared like a lopsided and stumbling creature. Newt’s arms were raised in a deathgrip on his head. His face was scrunched up, very white and dotted with stark freckles. Grimmson released the hold as though he was ridding his hand of some nasty, sticky substance, and Newt tumbled to the ground. He was still clutching at his head, tearful eyes stinging at the smoke, his features drawn and almost gaunt with insomnia and pain. 

Grimmson shook his hand, and a handful of shining copper curls drifted to the ground, where they caught fire and burned. There were patches of dying flames in dry grass, stirring embers that flared to life and dimmed again with the breeze.

“I believe I told you to bring him to me, not to torture him,” said a low voice. Newt was shivering on the ground when Grimmson’s justifications poured from his mouth. The strain on his scalp had exacerbated the ache in his head tenfold, and he could barely see for the pain. 

“Do not mistake me again,” said the voice, very coldly. And then there were hands on his hands, gently prying Newt’s grip away from his aching and torn scalp. The whooshing of whispered consolation. Someone was sorting through his hair with careful fingers, cradling Newt’s head in his knees. Newt closed his eyes, surrendering to the delicate ministrations. This could not be worse than the Ministry, and Newt was tired.

A smooth, low humming voice in his ears, hands in his hair, the scent of sweat mingling with clove and pear and ah, that healing peppermint magic soothing his scalp.

“…confess to finding myself rather fond of it. There, there, dearest,” he muttered. And then, in a clearer voice, “You have been clever, haven’t you? Finding a loophole in an unbreakable vow! Very resourceful, Newton. ”

The nonverbal healing gave way to the strange sensation of the skin of his ear knitting together. Theseus had healed the wounds but his magic could not regrow the flesh as Grindelwald was doing. Newt felt the tip of that deadly wand tapping his temple and allowed his head to loll in the grip. He had not betrayed Dumbledore. Perhaps he could see Percival if the vow did away with him anyway. Grindelwald was fixing his hair, and it felt lovely.

“Has it pained you?” Grindelwald said, letting go of Newt’s head and taking his hand, pulling him until Newt obliged and stood, then staggered. Grindelwald led him over and propped him against something hard. With a flick of the elder wand, thick black ropes bound Newt securely to the tomb, and Newt sagged in the hold, almost relieved to be on familiar ground. The moondew and the dry ivy were gone, but he recognized the tombstone. Whose was it, again?

“A burning reminder of our bond,” Grindelwald said in a hushed voice, letting go of Newt’s hand. “You wrote to Dumbledore that I did not understand the nature of things I deem simple. Perhaps it is you who underestimates our connection.”

Newt blinked up through his fringe, looking perplexed.

“Have you been intercepting my mail?” he ventured. “Why-?”

Grindelwald scoffed. “I’ve kept an eye on Dumbledore’s correspondence for decades,” he turned away, then, gazing out onto the graveyard. Newt licked his dry lips. He loathed the part of himself that missed Gellert’s hands on his head, the part of himself that found security in the texture of the ropes binding him.

“What’ve you done with Aberforth?” he said abruptly.

“Your decoy?” Grindelwald glanced at Newt over his shoulder. “He attempted to engage me in a duel. You see the results,” he waved a careless hand at the overturned earth and cracked stones. “When the tide turned inevitably in my favor, he fled.”

“You sent Grimmson after Credence,” Newt said, his face falling. “He’s been your mole in the Ministry.”

“The Ministry sent him after the boy,” Grindelwald said, kneeling down to look at a name on a gravestone and sighing. “They wish to kill him. I wanted to save him, but you did not let me. Can you blame me for finding a way around the vow, when you have done so yourself?”

Newt swallowed. 

“Why did you have me fetch Dumbledore? Why here?” Newt said, hesitant, after a pause.

Grindelwald started, as though his thoughts had taken him someplace far away. He walked over and leaned in close to Newt. He spoke very softly, so that his breath was a whisper against Newt’s face. 

“Dumbledore was right to worry about your connection to the Hallows.”

Newt opened his mouth to deny such a connection existed, to debate the existence of the Hallows, but Grindelwald pressed two fingers against his lips and Newt snapped his mouth closed, jerking back and banging his head against stone.

“Don’t lie to me,” Grindelwald growled. “I can feel your magic, and it is infused with the Hallows, with power that flows from death itself. I have Seen that the Hallows will be reunited tonight, Newton. I will hold them in my hands,” Grindelwald trailed off, his voice awed.

“You also saw that it would snow, in August,” Newt said. “Are you certain it wasn’t a dream?”

Grindelwald’s eyes gleamed and Newt found his jaw in a vice-like grip.

“Question neither my certainty nor my Sight, Newton,” Grindelwald said softly. The hard grip melted away, the hand resting on Newt’s throat in clear warning. Newt’s wide eyes were frightened, pupils dilated in the darkness. His pulse and breaths were shallow and rapid beneath Grindelwald’s fingers. Gellert wound his hand around to the cigarette burn at the nape of Newt’s neck, where the hairs stood on end. Newt bowed his head. There was little he could do to resist, tied to the stone with his wand out of reach.

“Despite your attempts to erase the evidence, you are linked to the Hallows.” 

Newt arched away from the caress, claustrophobic because Grindelwald was now whispering into his mouth, the breath warm on Newt’s lips, on his cheek. “They have chosen you, and you will help me to obtain them. I will scour your mind for the answer if I have to, though I’d prefer not to damage you further.”

And then Newt pushed back against the stone he was tied to, leaning forward to initiate a furious kiss, teeth knocking teeth and splitting lips. Newt bit hard on Grindelwald’s lip, and Gellert sprang back, hissing and cursing in German, blood flowing down his chin.

“You’re going to regret that, my dear,” Grindelwald promised. He dabbed at his lip with a white handkerchief, which did not remain white, and shot Newt a calculating look.

“Damage me further?” Newt repeated, looking stunned. “Is that what you think of me? Why you insist upon healing me? Did you enjoy forcing yourself on me and then wiping that night from my mind, pushing me to fulfill yet another favor? What more can you take?”

Grindelwald’s frown turned dark with fury. His upraised hand moved, the handkerchief trembling, as though he wished to strike Newt but was barely holding himself back.

“You presume too much,” he said finally, expelling air through his teeth. “It matters little, what you think of me.”

He turned away, pacing as though to walk off the rage simmering in the set of his shoulders, in the furrow of his brow. 

“Untie me and let me go, then. If any part of you has ever cared, even a little,” Newt began, his voice high, beseeching. “It can be simple, Gellert.”

Grindelwald fumbled uncharacteristically with a cigarette and it fell to the ground. He rounded back on Newt. His voice was strangely hoarse and he avoided Newt’s gaze. 

“You’ve held the elder wand, the Deathstick in your hands. You’ve felt its magic augment your own. Imagine how much stronger it would be, working in tandem with the others. Imagine what I could do for our world. Newton, you cannot understand how long and hard I have searched for them, how this vision has haunted me, fragmented and tenuous, through the years. Albus and I followed a trail that was cold for centuries, but it is somehow you… you who are the final piece. I find you fascinating for your own merits. I cannot deny this. But this is greater than us, my little snowdrop. When the vision showed me the grave of the Peverells and our scarred hands,” Grindelwald took Newt’s right hand into his own, and the scars aligned once more. Grindelwald’s hands were very warm and trembling slightly. His fingers stroked Newt’s palm reverently, his thumb caressing Newt’s knuckles, the sensitive raised skin of the scars they shared.

Newt watched Grindelwald caress his hand with reproving eyes. Grindelwald went on,

“Newton, they will destroy us and our world if we let them continue as they are. We are already on the brink of war—you know this,” Grindelwald’s eyes met Newt’s. The silver-blue eye was shining brightly, veined with red, and the dark brown eye glittered. Zealous sparks danced in Grindelwald’s gaze, a zeal which was contagious and volatile, like a secret. The blood from his lip stained his upturned shirt collar, and a drop had darkened the blue cravat at his throat. Newt could still taste the salty iron on his tongue.

“You told me before that you wish to head off their war with another war, with revolution,” Newt said, his voice pained. “At best, that’s a lesser evil. Think of yourself as a person, not a demagogue, Gellert! Please. Just because you’ve gone so far along this road does not mean you can’t change course. Your intentions were once pure, you must know deep down-”

“There will be no need for war once I find the Hallows,” Grindelwald promised, fervent eyes focused inward. His hand absently brushed Newt’s fringe from his forehead, and then he took out his wand and twirled it. “No more killing of innocents. Your creatures will prosper, and you will thank me. But it will require Albus… strange, I always saw him here with us.”

Grindelwald gazed at Newt, not through him, this time, and said, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

A great, blinding flash of silver light exploded from his wand, and Newt recognized the screeching cry of the phoenix before his eyes adapted to its brightness. The silver bird swooped in a circle about them, leaving a lingering trail of light, and suddenly perched on a nearby grave.

Grindelwald looked between it and a shadow that was not being cast by anything discernible. He raised his eyebrows and rolled his head back, with a faint cracking, gazing expectantly at the empty patch of charred grass. His mustache twitched when he smirked.

And Albus Dumbledore stepped out of thin air and stretched a hand out to the shining bird. The phoenix reached toward his hand and dissipated on contact, leaving the three wizards standing in midnight darkness. The church’s bells began to toll.

“I see some things do not change,” Albus said mildly, setting several large orbs of light floating gently over their heads. In the warm light, he looked at Newt and Grindelwald. “Why have you tied up one of my former students, Gellert?” 

“If you have been here the whole time, masking your magic, you no doubt know why Newton is here,” Grindelwald observed pleasantly. There was a careful, cool note in his demeanor. He was more watchful than before. The grip on the white wand was tighter, his posture more limber, as though he was ready to tense at a moment’s notice.

“Mr. Scamander does not know anything of the Hallows beyond what you gave him,” Dumbledore said, his voice firm. “Let him go. This doesn’t concern him.”

“You never doubted my Sight before,” Grindelwald said, stepping between Albus and Newt. Newt felt the ropes shift slightly, and tried to catch Dumbledore’s eye, but his former teacher was fixed on Gellert.

“I doubt your insight, not your gift. I doubt your use of your talents, and your choices, not your genius,” Dumbledore said gently. “It is a temptation too great for us, Gellert. A child’s dream, a fool’s errand and a fairytale.”

“You did not always think so,” Grindelwald said in the same tone. His voice was lower and carried a hoarser edge, imbuing the words with a sardonic inflection.

“Some things should remain buried,” Dumbledore insisted. 

Newt caught the ropes as they slid down, and he knelt on the ground and placed them softly onto the base of the stone. Rather than run, or interrupt the conversation of the two wizards, he turned to read the stone. His back ached and felt oddly warm. Newt gazed at the stone, ignoring the growing feeling of dread. Behind him, Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s voices grew contentious. There was a triangle, circle and line on the tombstone, and a faded surname confirming his suspicions. It reminded him of something, this crumbling stone on its grey dais…

“Newt, we need to go!” came a whisper, and there was a tug on Newt’s shoulder. Newt jumped and nearly fell over.

“Who?” he mouthed, and then he nearly laughed. Credence’s floating head appeared, and then the rest of him as the cloak slid to the ground to pool in silvery folds of fabric onto the tombstone. 

“Can you walk?” Credence said, trying to pull Newt up. “I’m sorry we didn’t distract him sooner! Professor Dumbledore insisted we wait to hear what he had planned. Are you…alright?”

“It’s just a concussion,” Newt said, looking the young man up and down. “But you shouldn’t be here, Credence. Did Dumbledore bring you here? Where’s Bunty?”

“We met with Justice Potter,” Credence nodded, “And Dumbledore showed me where his sister is buried. You saved the Kelpies, right?” 

“What?” said Newt, his head pounding. Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s magic was all but crackling on the air, like the quiet before a storm. Every part of Newt wanted to flee, to run back to his case and his creatures and resume searching for Percival until they could have breakfast in their gazebo again, because Percival couldn’t be dead, not until Newt found proof… 

“The Kelpies at the Reserve, you know-” Credence said, but Newt’s wand arm shot up.

“ _Impedimenta,_ ” Newt muttered, somewhat belatedly, for the nonverbal spell had left his wand, fuelled by sheer reflex and adrenaline. The dark figure looming behind Credence was knocked back. “Third time he’s snuck up on me tonight,” Newt said gruffly, when Credence gazed at him in awe. 

Grimmson stumbled back to his feet, face set.

“ _Serpensortia!_ ” he said, and Newt found himself pushing Credence away from an enormously long, thick python, its scales glinting dimly in the light.

Newt waved his wand, and the python flew over to coil around the thick trunk of the nearest oak tree. Maneuvering the large snake was tricky; it twisted and hissed in the air, not terribly pleased at being summoned and then levitated.

“Those aren’t native to Europe,” Newt said, his tone chastising. He turned back from moving the python to find Credence and Grimmson exchanging spells.

“ _Incarcerous!_ I knew if I waited, you would lead me to him,” said Grimmson, pointing his wand at Credence. The ropes had been meant for Newt, who ducked and felt the rush of air from the spell across the back of his head. Credence tried to disarm Grimmson, his spell bouncing harmlessly off the enchanted vambrace. Grimmson fired back with a blasting curse and Credence shielded, channeling his Obscurus. His eyes grew lighter and a black haze clung to his hands, as though the shadows had thickened in his vicinity. 

It was startling to find that Credence and Grimmson were evenly matched, Credence’s raw power holding out against the cunning and experience of a veteran dueler. Still, Newt did not think Credence could last in this contest. Grimmson was flinging provocations as well as hexes. Newt raised his wand to intercede, to protect Credence, when there was a familiar, snappy _crack!_ of apparition.

“I should have known you were the mole! And a Grindelwald fanatic to boot!” cried Theseus, throwing several curses at Grimmson in rapid succession. He had apparated and come in swinging his wand, fury evident in his movements and the stiffness of his jaw. The beast hunter repelled the attack with a shaking forearm, the spells glancing off the vambrace and flying in all directions. One narrowly missed Dumbledore, who was reaching a hand to Grindelwald’s shoulder.

Whatever the moment between them was, it was broken. Grindelwald’s face twisted and was overtaken by bitterness.

“ _Inferius!_ ” he said, savagely bringing his wand down. An unsettling wave of magic rippled through the graveyard. Dumbledore sprang back, wheeling around to gaze out over the heaving earth.

Newt and Grimmson were focused on Credence, and when a hand burst out of the ground and grabbed Newt’s ankle, he yelled and went down. He jerked his foot back from the dark, leathery hand, shaking loose dirt and fingernails. Newt’s boot slid off in the clamped, cold fingers. The decrepit hands clamored for his socks and bare feet. Newt climbed toward the Peverell stone, blasting back the macabre figures that were rising from the ground and clutching blindly at everything in their path. 

Grindelwald was flushed, and demanding Dumbledore call off his Aurors, and Dumbledore was shouting that Theseus’s arrival was not his doing.

“If you do not discontinue your pursuit of Mr. Scamander, he’s the one who’s going to end up in Azkaban or dead,” Dumbledore ground out, bringing his wand about in a fierce swing that sent golden sparks through the air. The sparks caught on dry ivy and on the corpses, dancing on the dirt and stone as though they were drops of water. Yellow flames engulfed Grindelwald, who spun on his heel and appeared behind Dumbledore.

“You’re the one who’s setting him up for prison,” Grindelwald hissed. “Wales? Really, Albus? Did you expect me to fall for such a transparent ploy?”

Dumbledore conjured a silver shield that gave a resounding _clang_ when it intercepted Grindelwald’s riposte. 

“Ploy? I had hoped that Newt and Credence might be off your radar, as the expression goes,” Dumbledore said, once the ringing abated and the shield faded into mist. “But it seems you had gotten to him first. I confess, I expected Credence to be the bigger draw. You surprised me, going after Newt instead. Twice now, is it?”

“Took a leaf out of your book,” Grindelwald observed somewhat snidely, watching a corpse emerge from a recent grave, a woman with dirt in her hair and sunken eyes that were oddly blank.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dumbledore said mildly. “In any case, you ought not perturb the dead like this, Grindelwald. It is sacrilege.” 

He waved his wand and the Inferius collapsed back to the ground, the magic animating her limbs gone out of her. 

“Just as much as the stone,” Grindelwald said sharply. “Tell me, have you found it? Did you send for it? You always loved to delegate. I remember that your brother ran out of patience with you quite early on.”

“I’m glad he ran out on you earlier,” Dumbledore was frowning at the burning Inferi. His yellow flames consumed the plants and bodies, and the smell of charred flesh oppressed them, searing and visceral. The memory of the war hovered over the disturbed graves.

Trampled and burning plants littered the ground, decapitated flowers shedding their petals and withering in the heat. Dense strips of shadow bisected the terrain: furrowed and overturned earth, cracked stone crosses, and everywhere the putrid smell of decay and a haze of fire and dust. 

Ash fluttered to the ground, light grey against the night sky. Tongues of dying flame lapped at the remnants of dry ivy, an amber glow cropping up with the wind and dying down again intermittently like ghostly embers. Skeletal wreaths lay in charred ruins on flame-scorched stones.

“ _Ventus!_ ” Newt muttered, and the smell lifted, the cool breeze fluttering their hair and rising into the foliage, a whirl of white ash and half-burnt flowers. The wind fed the flames on the ground, which swept sideways and up, swallowing and setting alight the ivy on the tombstones, the Inferi, and the lower branches of the oak trees. Clumps of ash began to descend like snow onto the ravaged graveyard. From the nexus of the whirlwind, Newt spotted Grindelwald and Dumbledore speaking, Theseus and Credence battling Grimmson, and several cigarette-smoking figures lingering at the gate, attracted by the noise and lights. 

Newt cast his best muggle repelling charm, and turned back toward Grimmson. He aimed his wand and hesitated.

Grimmson had Credence in a headlock, his wand pointed at his head, a look of triumph on his face. The metal vambrace dug into Credence’s chin, and Credence was shivering, his eyes fading until they seemed to be obscured by white film.

“Don’t hurt him!” Newt cried, and Theseus shouted,

“Which one?” with his wand trained at Credence and Grimmson. “ _Stupefy_!” he barked, but Grimmson had maneuvered Credence into the line of fire. Newt raised his wand, too, too slowly.

In his periphery, Dumbledore was shouting something at Grindelwald, a jet of silver light bursting from his wand. Grindelwald’s white wand emitted a shimmering blue cloud which lit up and arrested Dumbledore’s spell, glowing, growing, heaving like elastic until the silver curse was spit out at a strange angle, tinged with blue-pink and sizzling. Grimmson and Theseus were shouting, but Credence was oddly silent.

And then the world exploded in black powder that moved like water and pulsed with uncontained magic. Amidst the darkness, there was a brief flash of pink light, and a thud that was swallowed up by the harsh rushing sound of flaring sand, smoke and stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers & warnings for this chapter: here there be inferi, general violence and some more Ministerial torture, as well as side-along apparition by the hair (mysticaltorque's idea, that!); and at the very end there is some (not permanent) Major Character Death. So I mean, hang in there? 
> 
> I have ambitious plans for this, but it'll take a little while to realize them. And be well!
> 
> (also thank you so so much for the feedback, I am always thirsty and grateful for it)


	12. A Hollow Dilemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings---uhm, don't flay me alive for this, there is **major character death** (but I promise it's temporary!)
> 
> I'm sorry for the time between updates--this is taking longer and keeps changing. I combined two chapters for ya here to make up for it <3 leave me a word or sentence if you enjoyed it? Let me know if parts were confusing? I fear some parts may be, but I also don't want to underestimate "the reader" :/ and there are things purposefully ambiguous, too. ahhhh. Hopefully still somewhat enjoyable!! Anyway that's enough proofreading for me, my apologies if I missed errors.

Ch 12. A Hollow Dilemma 

Dumbledore waved his wand to clear the smoke and coax the dancing granules toward reassembling into a hunched silhouette. He felt Credence’s raw magic beating back his own, and redoubled his efforts. The Obscurus lashed out, and Dumbledore lost control.

There was a strange timelessness to being adrift in the terrified, enraged, welling sea of corrupted magic. Dumbledore did not recognize Credence Barebone, or Godric’s Hollow, or himself. He could half-glimpse his younger brother, sweating and panting from Gellert’s Cruciatus, bellowing that the German nutter was evil. Gellert, looking between Albus and Aberforth, his anger palpable in his magic and the dark wood of his old wand. Ariana, her auburn hair streaming behind her as she ran, losing a house slipper, to stop their duel…

Dumbledore did not reassert control. Credence’s Obscurus battered and tore into his skin and clothes, beating wildly to and fro like a confused hurricane. When he found himself in an oasis of quiet, it was Grindelwald’s older, pale face that he saw, white hair mussed by the wind and falling onto his brow, eyes shining fierce silver and black.

“Do something!” Grindelwald snarled directly into his ear, and it was the spittle and breath that accompanied the voice of his childhood sweetheart, the tang of pear and ozone on the wind, which finally jolted Dumbledore from his stupor. He blinked away moisture and raised his wand.

With Grindelwald’s familiar magic accompanying and reinforcing his spellwork, Dumbledore’s magic slipped into old patterns. He did not wrest control from Credence so much as undermine the fear with reassurances. The Obscurus hesitated, and Grindelwald’s magic cleaved through it like butter, herding it into close quarters while Dumbledore soothed and coaxed it into corporeality once more. The smoke and the roiling blackness condensed into Credence who collapsed, insensate, to the ground.

Dumbledore sighed and blotted his forehead with something which turned out to be not a handkerchief but a glove. Grindelwald tilted his head and Dumbledore softened before he remembered himself and tucked the glove away.

“Were you hoping to distract me by bringing a human bomb to negotiations?” Grindelwald asked tersely. He did not move to heal the abrasions their faces and hands.

“That was not part of the plan,” Dumbledore admitted. His beard hid most of his frown. “But I appreciate the assistance.”

Grindelwald brushed off the gratitude like spilled water. The ground where Credence and Grimmson had been standing was level and bare. The Obscurus had blasted the beast hunter clear across the graveyard. The magical shockwave had deprived the flames of oxygen and knocked out the Inferi, raising great clouds of ash that was now descending slowly to paint the black ground with streaks and clumps of whitish grey. A quiet had descended on the graveyard. No midnight birds sang, no crickets chirped. Theseus crouched near Credence, trying to rouse him to consciousness. 

“Is he…?” Dumbledore took a step toward Theseus, looking stricken.

But Theseus waved him off, “He’s alive. Take care of Grindelwald! Don’t let him get away,” Theseus said frantically. He lay Credence down carefully and stepped around to Grimmson, who was out cold. Theseus removed Grimmson’s wand and vambrace, and conjured ropes to bind the renegade beast hunter.

“You know of the stone’s location,” Grindelwald said quietly. “You wish to see her again, to beg her forgiveness.”

“I know no more than I did before,” Dumbledore said, addressing the wizard behind him. He closed his eyes.

“But you suspect, you’ve come to a realization,” Grindelwald narrowed his eyes. “Tell me.”

“No.”

Dumbledore turned back to Grindelwald with a maddening, sad half-smile. “You forfeited the right to my aid when you attacked my brother, all those years ago. Your behavior since that time has only reinforced my reserve. We are on opposite sides, now, Grindelwald. You put us here. There’s nothing great or greater about oppressing others. Newt could tell you that.”

“He is a rare flower,” Grindelwald exhaled slowly, his voice hoarse and almost secretive. “Unwithered by the snow.”

“I always saw him as more of a sunflower, myself,” Dumbledore interjected. But Grindelwald had grown pensive and silent, his mismatched eyes drawn to Newt, who lay beneath the Peverell stone. 

His legs were missing. Grindelwald did not notice himself apparating though he must have, to be bending down next to Newton so quickly, hand tracing the place where his legs ought to be. He felt them beneath silky cloth, and drew his hand back to reveal formerly invisible limbs, which had been hidden by a light, smooth cloak. Grindelwald brought the cloak to his face and his expression shifted. He looked down to Newt and let the cloak flutter through his fingers and to the ground.

Newt had dropped his wand, and his right hand was clasped within his left. The freckled, scarred and long-fingered hands were twisted together and very still. Newt’s fingers were warm and pliant. His eyes were closed, and there was a thin, dark trail at his temple. Apart from his unusually pale skin and the burning orange lines trailing up the inside of his arm from the scars on his right hand, he could have been sleeping. The falling ash on his coat, his hair and his face looked like grimy snow. The Obscurus, which had caught Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and Grimmson in its radius and left them with stinging scrapes across their exposed faces and hands, had left no trace on Newt.

“Get away from him! I’m warning you,” Theseus cried, brandishing his wand at Grindelwald. Dumbledore was levitating Credence’s senseless body nearby, peering over Grindelwald’s shoulder with concern.

Grindelwald mouthed something indecipherable and rose, took a step back on unsteady feet, as though he had expected the ground to be somewhere else, and the upturned grass of the cemetery confused him.

Theseus dropped to his knees beside Newt and shook him. Newt did not respond, though some of the ash dislodged from his hair and coat to adhere to Theseus. Pickett jumped out of Theseus’s pocket and into Newt’s hair, chittering his distress.

“ _Ennervate! Finite! Ennervate!_ ” 

Theseus reached into his pocket to withdraw a jagged fragment of mirror. He held the glass to Newt’s lips, praying, waiting, muttering to Merlin. The mirror remained perfectly clear, reflecting Newt’s bluish lips. A corner of a brown case, a flash of green-blue leaves and scales, tufts of tan fur, a fragment of some enormous and slithering creature. Then the image changed to dark hair, white skin, and Theseus glimpsed a sliver of a tired and familiar face. Percival Graves looked grim and determined in the mirror shard. 

“Was it one of our curses, or your vow?” said Dumbledore, erecting a glowing white dome around Credence and addressing Grindelwald very calmly, as though he were asking about the weather. His eyes were very dry and almost crystalline blue.

Theseus looked to Dumbledore with shining, tearful eyes.

“Ich verstehe nicht,” Grindelwald murmured, “How can this be?”

He waved the ridged elder wand, and a fog fell upon the cemetery, thick and opaque, obscuring the landscape and the village. Grindelwald flicked his wand, and the air swirled in translucent, multicolored currents which resolved into colorful, semi-transparent patterns of flowing light. 

The shield around Credence glowed pale blue, as did Dumbledore. Theseus saw his hands emanate a warm, ruby light, and Grimmson shone with a steely crimson, like blood on metal. Credence’s form was a strange admixture of umber and bruised purple-black, as though the Obscurus was corroding his magic. He glowed almost as brightly as Dumbledore and Grindelwald, whose form was shrouded with brilliant silver veined with black. Newt’s glow was muted in comparison, a warm, amber light near his heart that faded to sage and then bottle green toward his extremities. Pickett shone like a gold blossom in Newt’s hair. Theseus’s glow was amber at heart, too, but his limbs were vibrant red. He brought a red, glowing hand to the brightest spot on Newt, above his sternum.

The ground moved with faint swirls of color. The oak trees had a soft, yellow sheen to them. The graves were dark, but the monument to Gryffindor was limned in red, and the Peverell stone emitted a deep blue, nearly black light. 

“Remarkable,” Dumbledore whispered softly. “After all this time, the Peverell tomb holds such power.”

“What power? What are you talking about?” said Theseus breathlessly. “What’s he doing?”

“Try to imagine a visualization of magic,” Dumbledore said. “Not an easy or common feat. It’s curious…”

The more Theseus looked, the more he felt he knew what Dumbledore was talking about. Grindelwald’s wand glowed with the same dark aura that emanated from the Peverell stone, and, oddly, from Newt. Despite the brightness of his gold-green magic, or perhaps interwoven with the brightness and thus offsetting it further, was that cool, deep, dark blue-black that seemed to feed into the stone and return to Newt’s body. The strange feedback mechanism worked before their eyes, and Theseus could see the stone begin to take on an amber-green shine, as Newt’s magic dimmed and chilled to dark blue. The abandoned cloak at Newt’s feet stirred with blue-black light, as though it were absorbing the surrounding magic.

“But he’s not breathing,” Theseus said, his voice cracking on the last word. “What’s the magic doing?”

“No,” Grindelwald said, and suddenly he was beside Theseus and grasping Newt’s cooling, scarred right hand. “Nein, no, this was not my vision, this should not be.”

His voice petered out into a wrenching whisper, as though he were speaking to Newt. Indeed, he leaned down toward Newt’s ear, and recited in a hushed voice: “ _Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death—called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath…_ ” he bowed his head, closing his eyes as though he were in pain. “You cannot die, Newton. This I will not abide.”

Dumbledore was frowning, gazing between Grindelwald, Newt’s prone form, and the tombstone beneath which he lay.

“Do something! He can’t be gone,” Theseus cried, “He’s my little brother. He can’t be dead. Dumbledore!”

But the professor only looked sadly, pensively at the stone.

“What’ve you done now, you melodramatic bastards?” said a new, gravelly voice. Theseus, Dumbledore, and Grindelwald turned from Newt with some surprise to find an unkempt man who blazed with fierce, resplendent flames of royal blue. The colors lit up a grimy, pale face, a hand clutching something that radiated blue-black, and a muddy black and white coat. An angry, partially-scabbed wound ran across his throat.

“Gravesy, you’re not dead,” Theseus said, none of the happiness manifesting on his face. “But it’s too late.”

“You know, Theseus, I am beginning to wonder,” said Dumbledore slowly.

He approached and took up the cloak, and as he held it up, the blue-black glow intensified. There was no hint of wind but a flurry of swirling, colorful liquid seemed to pass between the cloak, Percival’s hand, and Grindelwald’s wand like a miniature tornado. 

“What?” said Theseus, wiping his nose with a sleeve.

“Percival came to me with a prophecy, you see,” Dumbledore said, going up to the stone and draping the cloak over it. Instead of vanishing, the stone remained visible, and the silvery cloak took on a brilliant white glow. 

Dumbledore turned to Grindelwald.

“The Hallows are gathered,” Dumbledore said softly. “What will you do, Gellert?”

Grindelwald blinked. His eyes were bright with greed, suddenly, and a demonic shiver of excitement went across his face. He trained his wand on Percival, then on Dumbledore. 

“What prophecy?” Theseus asked loudly.

In a hoarse voice, Percival said, “A lost verse of Tycho’s, regarding the Sybil of Vienna.”

“There haven’t been Sibyls for centuries,” Theseus began, waving Graves off.

“I’m willing to wager that he,” Percival jerked his wand toward Grindelwald, “hails from Vienna. He’s the Seer, Scamander, and he’s facing a dilemma in Godric’s Hollow.”

“ _First death relented between the two brothers; a schism newly mended, though never recovered,_ ” Dumbledore recited in an undertone, his sad eyes drawn to a nearby grave.

“What?” Theseus said faintly. “Two brothers? Is that me and Newt?”

Dumbledore frowned deeply.

The colorful glow of magical auras was fading, Grindelwald’s spell dissipating slowly as his attention shifted. “The pilgrim…the pilgrim’s got to be Newt. We might deliver—we might save him. How do we save him?”

“From the Peverell tomb unto Graves,” Dumbledore gave a very reserved smile. “Yes, Mr. Graves. You must have been a bright student. It all depends on our Sybil.”

Grindelwald raised an unusually defensive gaze to Dumbledore. He had been strangely quiet, his gaze fixed on Newt’s draining green aura, Newt’s pale face, his closed eyes and pallid, parted lips, his unmoving throat and freckled, scarred hands that lay too still… But the greedy spark reignited in his eyes when he looked from Dumbledore to the cloak draped on the tombstone, to his wand and Percival’s closed fist.

Percival’s clever dark eyes caught every minute shift of Grindelwald’s attention, of Dumbledore’s frown, of the play of wandlight on faces. He felt hyperaware of Theseus’s quickfire denial, and the prophecy played in his head like a looped tune. He gazed everywhere but at Newt from beneath grimy strands of hair that hung limp over his brow.

“You can’t,” Theseus began, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and began again, “You can’t be serious. I’m not letting that criminal anywhere near my brother.”

“Don’t be daft, Scamander,” Grindelwald muttered, “I’m hardly going to kill him a second time. Now get out of my way.”

Theseus looked ready to fight, but to his surprise both Dumbledore and Percival kept their wands trained low.

“Are you mad?” Theseus shouted, “I won’t have a dangerous dark wizard approach Newt! Need I remind you that he’s nearly killed Newt before, on several occasions? And now he’s su… he’s succeeded?”

“Stand aside, Theseus,” Dumbledore said softly. “If you want to see Newt again, you’ve got an important job. You must keep vigil over Credence—it is what Newt would want. And that fellow, your mole,” Dumbledore frowned toward Grimmson.

“You seem certain of my choice,” Grindelwald snapped, his eyes narrowing. “What makes you so sure?”

“I hope, perhaps in vain, that you may have learned from your mistakes, Gellert,” Dumbledore said. His voice was cool and light, but his eyes held an agonizing weight.

Grindelwald stepped past the gaping Theseus and took a handful of the material of the cloak. It slipped like fluid through his fingers, and Grindelwald caressed the fabric and frowned at it. His mustache twitched.

“I will master death,” he whispered, tugging the cloak to himself and walking toward Percival and Dumbledore. Nonverbally, he summoned the object from Percival’s hand. Grindelwald examined the black stone set into a gold ring and then he donned it. The cloak settled over his shoulders, not invisible but the deepest of blacks with a silver sheen. The wand glowed blue-black in Grindelwald’s hand. He threw back his head, and though there was no wind, his hair stirred. 

Percival sighed.

Grindelwald sighed slowly and opened his eyes. There was a hideous excitement in them.

“Gellert,” Dumbledore began, but Grindelwald flicked his wand and Dumbledore’s voice died in his throat. 

“Stay away from-” Theseus raised his wand, but Grindelwald did not even turn to look at him, bobbing his wand to send the Auror flying.

Percival’s magic cushioned what might have been a brutal collision and set Theseus gently down onto the ground. 

Grindelwald, meanwhile, was sauntering back toward the Peverell stone. The white of his hair, wand and cloak was more than luminous—it was hypnotic. 

“Hush now, Dumbledore,” Grindelwald said, turning to Albus, who was mouthing words silently at him. “Do you see now, what we could have had? Had you a little more faith, a little more patience? I will master death, and bring Newton back. There need be no dilemma!”

There was another whipcord _crack_ of apparition, and Percival stood over Newt, a handkerchief in his hands.

“You’re one short of the full set,” he said, a grim smile passing over his features. He flicked the handkerchief as though shaking dust from it. 

“What are you talking about?” Grindelwald snarled, but then the ring on his hand became a white handkerchief, and the handkerchief in Percival’s hands became a gold ring set with a large, black stone. 

The black-faceted stone reflected the light, flashing white and blue-black. Percival put it on his finger, and raised his wand.

“You and Dumbledore are not the only ones competent in Transfiguration,” he said, and closed his eyes. 

Grindelwald was in the midst of stepping forward, a curse on his lips, when an unearthly chill enveloped the graveyard. Dumbledore’s spheres of conjured light vanished, plunging them all into blackness. But the darkness thinned in proximity to Percival and Newt, where spectral wisps of light gathered together like oil in water.

A pale, translucent silhouette solidified into the grayish shade of a young man with wavy hair and bright eyes. He looked to be Credence’s age, but there was an ageless knowing in his gaze that clashed with his youthful appearance. The cloak he wore was identical to the one draped over Grindelwald’s shoulders, but it looked brighter, somehow, on the younger man, silvery with intricate, multicolored designs. He stepped through the Peverell stone and knelt next to Newt. He took Newt’s scarred hand into his own and looked up at the wizards with a frown.

“He’s neither here nor there,” he said quietly. His voice carried perfectly across the graveyard. “I know you called for him,” he said to Percival, glancing at him through a ghostly fringe. “He heard you, but he cannot cross without aid. And he is insufficient,” the young man cast a sidelong glance at Grindelwald and returned his attention to Graves.

“Who are you?” said Theseus, “How d’you know Newt?”

“The third brother,” Grindelwald said slowly, his eyes narrow. “What do you know of Newton?”

“We’ve met in dreams now and again,” the young man said vaguely. “There was one person here who could have wielded mastery over death,” said Ignotus, looking between Dumbledore and Grindelwald with something very like exasperation. “One who might have been worthy to possess the Hallows. And you’ve gone and destroyed him, haven’t you?”

 

* * *

 

Tina’s wand illuminated the path and Bunty’s tracking spell pointed them further down the lane and toward the shadow of the church. They could glimpse flashes of spellfire and hear snatches of yells.

“D’you think Aberforth will lose his leg?” Tina asked in a whisper. The two women had paused to let a trio of Muggle teenagers walk by. The boys were smoking and laughing, and didn’t seem to notice the pair of witches at all.

“Madam Spore is an excellent healer,” said Bunty, nodding so that her curly red hair bounced in its two buns. “I have no doubt that Aberforth’ll make a full recovery. I’m just glad you came to check on us.”

“Of course,” Tina sounded surprised. “I had to make sure you were all right. You’re the one who overheard Dumbledore luring Credence away. Queenie always said he was very interested in Credence, but she never could quite tell why. Now you’re going to stay behind me,” Tina met Bunty’s eyes—a difficult feat, because both witches were Disillusioned, and blended in with the road and gloom. 

“I can hold my ground, Auror Goldstein,” Bunty said. “I’m not fighter like you, but I was a nurse in the war.”

“I’m afraid we might need those skills,” Tina sighed, looking ahead. “Boys and their penchant for dueling. And Newt’s always somehow in the middle of it, isn’t he?”

There was a great explosion that shook the ground, a swell of black smoke ahead of them that had Tina gasping, “Credence!” and setting off running. 

Bunty sighed, nodded, and followed Tina at a more sedate pace. Madam Spore had categorically prescribed bed rest, and Bunty did not disagree with her. 

She was panting, jogging after Tina, when she noticed her hands had a pale yellow glow. Up ahead, Tina’s running figure was outlined in cerulean light that faded to a powder blue-grey over her heart. Bunty waved frantically but Tina did not see her, transfixed by the group of men gathered up ahead.

Credence lay on the ground, and Theseus was bending over him. Grimmson’s bulky outline lay recumbent next to a cracked tombstone. Dumbledore was speaking to Grindelwald, whose gaze had run to the last of the prostrate figures. All was a flurry of movement and urgent speech, of faint glowing color that radiated from the wizards and landscape.

“Mercy Lewis, is that Grindelwald? We’re going to need backup,” Tina said faintly. Her breath tickled the shell of Bunty’s ear.

“Newt’s hurt,” Bunty shot back in a whisper. “I’m not leaving.”

“I want to help him too, but this could be a bloodbath,” Tina hissed. “Please, Bunty.”

But the beast healer was firm, and Tina’s eyes shot around hopelessly before she bit her lip and scoffed.

“Fine, but please, please be careful,” Tina muttered. “Promise me to run if they see you. Back to Hogwarts, or the Ministry. I can’t believe I’m going for backup,” she huffed, and with what appeared to be enormous effort wrenched her eyes away from Grindelwald and Dumbledore, and set off down the lane to the apparition point. 

Bunty crept forward, making sure to eclipse her shadow with other shadows so as not to give away her movement. A ghostly figure was speaking. Bunty’s eyes went from the ghost to Newt to Grindelwald, whom she recognized from the newspapers.

He was shorter in real life, Bunty reflected, and he looked rather ruffled. Bunty had been afraid to raise her eyes to him, but despite his reputation the dark wizard did not glare at her and wandlessly dispel her Disillusionment charm, nor did he threaten or politically vociferate or effortlessly kill anyone. In fact, he was standing with tight shoulders, his wand clenched in a furious grip. His gaze penetrated the ghostly figure straight through to where Newt lay behind him. Grindelwald was surveying Newt with an expression Bunty found all too familiar. It was one she used to turn toward Newt, before Percival had caught her staring and taken Newt’s hand in his own. Newt’s face had lit up, and Bunty’s had fallen. 

It had been Auror Goldstein who had bonded with Bunty over creatures and over protecting Newt. Finding a new friend in Tina had cheered Bunty and warded off the worst of the heartbreak. When Tina became Mrs. Scamander, Bunty had been briefly jealous—until she and Tina spent the Auror’s wedding night giggling and chasing down escaped Nifflers. 

Bunty snapped back to the present, because the ghostly young man met her gaze, nodded at her, and frowned at the wizards. Dumbledore’s eyes flashed to Bunty and back, but he did not give any indication of having seen her.

“You say we are insufficient,” Dumbledore said softly, stepping forward to address Ignotus. “But if no one here can master the Hallows, all hope for Mr. Scamander is lost. There’s no dilemma, or if ever there was, it is already decided. Newt is lost to us.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was heavy indeed when he raised it, slowly, to look into the third brother’s face. Theseus’s teeth scraped audibly, and Bunty let out a startled gasp.

Percival did not let out a sound, but the ash around him rustled and his wand emitted a flare of brilliant white sparks. Grindelwald’s gaze flitted between Percival and Ignotus.

“Tycho the Bard did have some verses pertaining to your predicament,” Ignotus said mildly, as if he were observing the weather. Grindelwald’s glare darkened and he stalked forward.

“Tell us what you know!” He barked, putting all of his authority and anger into the command. Bunty flinched in her hiding place. Ignotus was unfazed.

“You’ve killed my brother,” Theseus said slowly, raising his wand on Grindelwald with shining eyes. He had been oddly silent, his vacant eyes taking in Newt, the translucent Peverell brother, and Percival as though all were illusory, as though he were dreaming. Grindelwald’s sharp voice had snapped Theseus back into the present, and his blank expression refocused into a cold rage at Grindelwald. “There’s no cell in the Ministry where you’ll be safe!”

“ _Petrificus Totalus,_ ” Dumbledore muttered, and met Theseus’s wide-eyed gaze before the Auror fell to the ground, stiff as a board and just as loquacious. “I’m sorry, Theseus, but now is not the time for vengeance. Please, Ignotus, go on.”

“You are insufficient,” Ignotus repeated, “individually.”

Grindelwald gave a quiet _ah_ , and with this soft exhalation the greedy light in his eyes diminished. He seemed to deflate, and he grit his teeth and blinked once, again, three times. His silvery blue eye cleared, and his dark brown eye looked more tired. His mustache drooped with his frown. Percival was surprised to see that cruel mouth suddenly petulant and pouting.

“Here,” he said gruffly, ripping the cloak from his shoulders and holding it out at arm’s length, not looking at Percival. “Before I change my mind, Graves!” he snarled, and when Percival stepped up to take the cloak, he nearly winced at the feral expression Grindelwald wore.

“The ring, please, Percival,” Dumbledore said, and Percival hesitated before taking off the ring, and giving it to Dumbledore. Ignotus did not disappear. Rather, he considered the three wizards and gave a very small, very unhappy smile.

Dumbledore put on the ring, and Grindelwald raised his wand. Percival held the cloak over one arm, as though he had forgotten how to put on clothes. They stood before the tombstone, Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and Graves, and Newt lay before them on the tomb as though on an altar. Ignotus rose to his feet opposite Percival, and bowed. 

The cloak felt oddly warm in Percival’s hands. He wondered if he should bow back, as Newt had trained him to do with a hippogriff. He blinked.

And then, in a wisp of light, Ignotus was joined by two other ghostly forms. They appeared opposite Dumbledore and Grindelwald like mirror images, unblinking and severe. Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and Percival stood on one side of the tombstone, and the three glowing apparitions appeared equidistant on its other side. Newt lay between them, skin washed pale by the eerie light.

A confident, square-jawed face looked directly into Grindelwald’s mistmatched eyes. The ragged scar across the man’s throat marked him dead as surely as his translucent form. He was burly, and his posture gave no ground to Grindelwald’s own fierce stance. Each man appeared to be a formidable, deadly duelist. 

Dumbledore was standing before a thin, hook-nosed man. A melancholy understanding passed nonverbally between Dumbledore’s blue eyes and the cloudy, haughty eyes of the newcomer. He was dressed in elaborate mourning clothes from what appeared to be the middle ages. His eyes were sardonic and sunken. There was a thick bruise about his neck, like a rope might leave.

Ignotus still stood opposite Percival. He had no discernible scars – rather, Percival was the one with the irritated red slash across the side of his throat. Ignotus looked to his left and right and nodded.

They stood like a guard of six over Newt’s prone form.

“Please, help me save Newt,” Percival rasped, and three brothers offered a hand to each wizard as one. Bunty gasped when Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Percival raised their hands and vanished. 

Then she turned her wand on Theseus, and whispered, " _Ennervate!_ "

* *

The point of contact between living and dead emanated a chill which tingled and travelled along Percival’s hand, up his wrist and arm, into his shoulders and down his chest. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed, and when he opened them the graveyard was gone.

He stood in a leafy glade that smelled of woodsmoke and fresh rain. Water glistened on the dry, brown leaves of unrecognizable trees. Percival stepped forward and felt his coat become waterlogged as he brushed past great bunches of wet ferns. The day was muggy and overcast, and the sun shone silver through a thick veil of cloud.

Percival did not have his wand, and his pockets were empty. When he looked down, he saw the cloak folded haphazardly over his left arm, which he clutched to his body. The cloak was no longer glowing, nor did it provide invisibility. It appeared an altogether ordinary cloak, if somewhat ornate and finely crafted. The silvery designs were almost imperceptible against the white fabric. Percival held it close to himself and gazed about, placing the profound worry he was feeling for another as concern… concern for Newt, whose death might be reversed, who drifted further out of reach with every passing moment…

He pushed through undergrowth and nearly stumbled on an overgrown foundation of mossy stones, the remnants of walls and chimneys. There had been a house here, decades, perhaps centuries ago. Percival stepped carefully over the ruins. It was difficult to tell the original color of the stone beneath layers of grime and circles of pale green lichen, but it had weathered into a crumbling dark grey beneath the green and damp. The wind shuffled the dry leaves and sent a cascade of them down from the arched boughs above, clearing another portion of bright, monochrome sky.

The ground was uneven, and in places the soggy moss gave way under his boots. What might have been pleasantly springy earth was replaced with the suction of viscous mud that threatened to engulf and devour Percival’s fine leather boots. For once, Percival did not care about the state of his shoes.

“Newt!” He cried. His voice, which was hoarse in the graveyard, rang loud and clear in the forest. He raised a hand to his throat and found that his newly-acquired scar was smooth and slightly raised, as though he had had it for years. 

“Newt! Give me a hint, something! Peverell! Damn it, Newt,” there was rainwater on his face from the falling leaves. Percival paused, breathing heavily, and that was when he heard a faint strain of sound. Miserably discordant, familiar wailing, like the off-key weeping of an aged aunt at a funeral, rang through the forest. 

Percival squelched through the mud in the general direction of the wailing, and it grew louder slowly, until he reached the edge of the glade. The landscape fell away into a fog beyond the trees. On the furthest tree, a tall, scraggly pine, there was perched a floppy, soggy grey bird. 

“Patrick?” Percival said, incredulous. “Mary? What are you doing here?”

There was indeed a pair of Augureys sat in the branches of the skeletal tree. They were gazing straight at Percival with their beady, shining eyes.

One of them opened its mouth and let out a long, wailing, plaintive cry. Percival winced, and covered his ears.

“More rain?” Percival replied, and the Augureys grew silent. One and then the other flapped off the branches and into the fog, which swirled in ringlets of white beneath their wings. 

The flight of the birds cut a swathe through the fog, and without thinking, Percival forged after them. The grey-white thickened around him as he followed the fading path. The ground sloped down, and the footing grew treacherous. Sliding and slipping, Percival ran across earth that became sandier and more solid. Soon pebbled and craggy rocks turned up beneath his muddy boots. When he glanced down below his spats, which were brown and running with mud, Percival saw the glimmer of quartz, mica, and semi-precious stones rounded smooth by the flow of water. 

The sound of running water up ahead grew louder, as did the angry voices.

The fog was clearing but only just, and Percival slowed when he spotted the near shore of a river, the foot of a bridge that vanished into fog, and two wizards. As he approached he made out a wide, clear stream running over black pebbles. Over it arched an old stone bridge with neither rail nor guide. The two figures standing on the path before the bridge were gesturing animatedly. One turned and took several steps before wheeling around and renewing the discussion. The other figure stood in place, its tapping foot revealing an underlying restless energy. 

“Gentlemen,” Percival said sharply, when Dumbledore and Grindelwald were in hearing range. “Kindly settle your lover’s quarrel on your own time. We are here for Newt.”

Dumbledore turned placidly, and Grindelwald rounded on Percival with a raised wand. Both wizards were flushed, but somehow they looked healthier. It was as though the circles beneath Dumbledore’s eyes had diminished, as though some of the cares on his face had been wiped away. Grindelwald’s eyes were both a pale, silvery blue, and almost luminous, like a cat’s. His hair fell in soft waves over his forehead and there was grime on his face and ash smeared in his fine black coat, but the bloodless pallor of his skin was replaced by a less ghostly hue.

“Good of you to join us, Mr. Graves,” Dumbledore said with an ironic gleam in his eye.

“Where are we?” said Percival, looking sharply about.

“I do not think we have left the graveyard,” Dumbledore said, when it became clear that Grindelwald was not going to respond. “Rather, we are in the midst of crossing another kind of boundary. One false step could mean death.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” Grindelwald growled, turning away from Dumbledore. “We are merely fetching Newton.”

He raised his wand, which began to spin on his open palm. Percival noted that it was made of mottled, reddish-brown wood rather than the bone-white color on the wanted posters and in MACUSA records. The discolored wand pointed directly at the foot of the bridge, and Grindelwald made to stand before it.

Dumbledore’s arm shot up to Grindelwald’s shoulder. Irate, silver-blue eyes narrowed at the professor.

“Just a moment, Gellert,” Dumbledore said, and he picked up a stone from the shore and tossed it sideways onto the bridge. The stone bounced once, and vanished. “It’s as I thought,” Dumbledore said slowly. “This bridge leads to the other side of the river.”

“You don’t say,” Grindelwald muttered.

“But Newt’s not there,” Percival interrupted. “Ignotus said he’s neither here nor there. Is he on the bridge?”

Percival strode up the bridge confidently, a dark figure cutting through opaque mist. He paused at the apex, as though listening intently.

“Underneath,” Dumbledore breathed, taking several long steps to the right. From this vantage point, the bridge seemed to compress on itself until it was naught but a crumbling stone archway. Grindelwald followed Dumbledore and his silver-blue eyes skated over the running water as though he was struggling to recall something.

The rush of the current shimmered, the water deceptively clear for its considerable depth. Nimbly burbling over pebbles like a thin mountain stream swollen with snowmelt, the river emanated a dense fog. Clouds of it obscured its source and destination, the opposite bank, and all but Percival’s silhouette. The bridge arose out and over it like some ancient and crumbling ruin.

Dumbledore jerked sympathetically when he saw Graves fall to his knees. For a long moment it seemed Percival might plunge from the bridge and into the swift-running river.

But then Graves found his feet again, and walked slowly to the two wizards on the bank. He had secured the silver-white cloak to the top of the bridge, so that it fluttered down from the keystone of the arch like a strange, gauzy curtain. There was nothing visibly holding the cloak, but it was rooted into the bridge as though it had always been there. The wind and fog made it appear ragged and timeworn, even as the cloak had seemed renewed when Percival had awoken in the forest. Thick mist clumped over the surface of the river and at the banks, now, creating the illusion of a cloudy path leading through the swaying cloak. 

Quiet sounds were strangely magnified: the silky fabric whispered against the stone bridge; the river bubbled over the stones. No animals made the shores their home. No fish swam in the preternaturally clear water. No birds flew overhead—the Augureys were long gone. Percival could hear Dumbledore steadying breaths, Grindelwald’s sharp intake of air, his own heart beating in his ears…

Grindelwald stepped forward, his wand rising slowly. His gaze trailed the tip of his wand, as though someone else was dictating his movements. He raised his luminous eyes to the river and something in them settled and refocused. His gaze hardened and his posture grew more rigid. Hazy contemplation fell away in favor of a cold, burning resolve. 

He waved the wand and the fog seemed to ossify. The river was turned to marble: the shimmering ripples on the water’s surface solidified, the current halted, and its burbling grew still. The entirety of the river was turned to craggy, solid ice. Vapor rose like a low mist to hang over the transfigured river, and billowed in a mysterious dance with the dangling cloak. Frost crept in spider’s webs up the rocky shore and near their shoes.

Dumbledore stepped out onto the river. He was the first to walk beneath the bridge, passing through the cloak as though through a gauze veil. He sidestepped and slunk in with surprising dexterity and a strange, hopeful expression, as if he were greeting someone he had not seen in a very long time. Neither Percival nor Grindelwald could catch a glimpse of him emerging from the other side. Dumbledore had stepped through the arch of the bridge and vanished.

Grindelwald walked through next, brushing the cloak aside with his wand and stepping regally into the dark with burning, silvery-blue eyes beneath furrowed blond brows. 

Percival looked ahead and went directly through the cloak, which caressed his face and mussed his hair. Behind him, the mournful cry of an Augurey cut out and his ears popped as he stepped beyond the cloak. His muddy boots left footprints up to where he vanished, level with the soft movement of the cloak. 

The wizards were gone, and the ice began to crack and thaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If DbtD was snow white, then this is another fairytale :D and you begin to see or at least get hints of it, at last
> 
> on the bright side, Percy's back! Also, the next chapter is tentatively called "Through the veil" and these three wizards are pretty terrible at getting along, as you might guess


End file.
